LUNCHEON ON THE GRASS
by Demented Amanuensis
Summary: SSHGLM threesome - don't like, don't read! The war is over. Hermione feels she deserves a holiday in Paris with her boyfriend Ron. That might be a bit of a mistake -- Death Eaters go there, too, and Snape and Malfoy are out to catch them. Mayhem ensues.
1. Chapter 1

LUNCHEON ON THE GRASS

Rien n'égale Paris ; on le blâme, on le louë ;  
L'un y suit son plaisir, l'autre son interest ;  
Mal ou bien, tout s'y fait, vaste grand comme il est  
On y vole, on y tuë, on y pend, on y rouë.

On s'y montre, on s'y cache, on y plaide, on y jouë ;  
On y rit, on y pleure, on y meurt, on y naist :  
Dans sa diversité tout amuse, tout plaist,  
Jusques à son tumulte et jusques à sa bouë.

Mais il a ses défauts, comme il a ses appas,  
Fatal au courtisan, le roy n'y venant pas ;  
Avecque sûreté nul ne s'y peut conduire :

Trop loin de son salut pour être au rang des saints,  
Par les occasions de pécher et de nuire,  
Et pour vivre long-temps trop prés des médecins.

Isaac de BENSERADE (1613-1691)

Nothing compares to Paris; they blame it, they praise it;

One seeks his pleasure there, another his interest;

Good or bad, anything goes there, vast and grand as it is

One steals there, one kills, one hangs, one tortures.

One shows oneself there, one hides, one goes to court, one gambles;

One laughs, one cries, one dies, one is born there:

In its diversity, everything's a joke, everything pleases,

Down to its noise and its mud.

But it has its faults, as it has its attractions,

Fatal to the courtesan, when the king isn't there;

No-one can be sure of his movements there:

Too far from grace to be counted among the saints,

Because of the opportunities to sin and harm,

And because of living too long near the quacks.

* * *

CHAPTER ONE - Rien n'égale Paris / Nothing Compares to Paris

Paris… Is there any city on earth more fraught with clichés, on-dits, expectations and glamour?

New York may be a Big Apple, which frankly isn't too alluring whether you think of it in botanical or biblical terms. Apples do rot, after all. Or there might be a snake in the vicinity, and someone prods you with a flaming sword faster than you can say fig leaf.

London has, well, a queen (or king, as the case may be). And unarmed policemen, and men with rather strange, furry headgear guarding the Queen's palace. People form queues in the most outlandish places and have very strict views on what you put in your tea. And in which order.

And so on, and so forth.

But Paris… Forget Paris, Last Tango in Paris, Is Paris Burning, Paris City of Lights, Paris City of Love, Paris of the Rive Gauche, Paris of the Eiffel Tower (it's probably not a coincidence that Gallic rhymes with phallic…) Paris is a myth, but a living one, which everybody is free to discover for themselves and make it their own, provided they have a bit of money and don't mind being snubbed because they don't speak perfect French.

Maybe it would be a good idea, though, to remember that Paris was the one to start the Trojan War by abducting Helena, whose beauty was such that a mighty fleet of ships set out to get her back. Love, or at least lust, and danger. Because that's Paris, too: danger.

--..--..--

The war had been over for a month. England's wizarding population had come out of its euphoric stupor. Whether alcoholic, drug-induced or euphoric, the end of a stupor inevitably comes with a hangover, and that's exactly what happened once the celebrations were over. People looked around them and shuddered at the mess they'd have to clean up. Unfortunately it wasn't just broken glass and puddles of vomit. They had to rebuild their whole society, and it was going to be a long, painful and, in every sense of the word, costly business.

And it wasn't as if there'd been a clean cut – the past was closer and more alive than many would have wished. So many had died, which was a tragedy, but at least death was something final that enabled the survivors to turn their backs on the past and start anew.

It was those who weren't dead who posed a problem.

If Severus Snape had had the good grace just to die in the Shrieking Shack, if Lucius Malfoy had been so kind as to get himself killed during the Battle of Hogwarts, if Voldemort's henchmen at the Ministry for Magic had had the decency to commit suicide when all was lost, the new government would've been free to roll up their collective sleeves, give everybody a decent funeral and get on with the job of rebuilding. As things were, Snape was slowly but steadily recovering at St. Mungo's, Malfoy was offering large bribes all over the place, on condition that the recipients have a look at his memories of the past two years, and various Ministry employees had been clever enough to start falsifying their records while everybody else was still celebrating. And, strangest of all, it seemed that Voldemort had commanded no more than twenty-seven Death Eaters, twenty-five of whom were dead. Conc. the remaining two, see above.

It was a mess, and not the kind the wizarding world was used to dealing with. Needless to say that they thoroughly bungled it.

--..--..--

Delicious fumes were wafting though the kitchen. Molly Weasley was cooking for the assembled clan and had declined everybody's offers of help. Only to complain afterwards that she had to do all the work, of course.

'Paris?' Molly said, eyeing the one person who'd successfully withstood her semi-violent shooing.

'Exactly. Paris.' Arms crossed and with a somewhat belligerent expression, Hermione Granger glared back at the red-faced matriarch.

Molly wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and turned back to the phalanx of bubbling pots on the cooking range. 'Out of the question,' she said sharply. 'You're not leaving the county, and you certainly won't drag my son with you to… to Paris, of all places.'

Hermione hadn't expected her idea to meet with unbridled enthusiasm and therefore planned this conversation carefully (complete with Plans B and C, although the use of Plan C would have landed her in Azkaban, war hero or not). First, she'd decided, she was going to try the rational approach. 'Look here, Mrs Weasley,' she said as calmly as she could, 'I'm over eighteen and therefore free to make my own decisions. So I'm going to Paris whether you like it or not. We've got a whole month of holidays left before school starts again, our Orders of Merlin came with a good deal of money, and with the situation being as it is… A few weeks away from all this hullabaloo would do me, erm, us a world of good.'

She felt a frisson of fear when Molly brandished the cooking spoon at her – the memory of the Battle of Hogwarts was still a bit too fresh for her liking.

'You have a responsibility here!' Molly snapped.

'With all due respect, I think it really isn't your place to say such things. I discharged any obligation I might have had during the last year. I risked my life more than once for the common good. And I've spent the last three weeks answering the Aurors' stupid questions, so I think I've done more than enough. I need a holiday. Ron needs a holiday.'

'What's wrong with spending it here, at the Burrow, like Harry and Ginny? You're safe here, and surrounded by friends and family.'

'Not by family,' Hermione replied, 'but certainly by friends, yes. Anyway-'

'What do you mean, not by family?'

Patience dwindling rapidly, Hermione did her best to keep her calm. 'Not family means that I'm not related to anybody here, Mrs Weasley. In any case-'

'Not related? You're going to get married to Ron, of course you're family!'

That was the point where Plan A went the way of all well-laid plans, closely followed by Plan B. C lingered for a bit, lovingly toying with the sharp edge of its axe, before it decided to join the other two and have fun watching.

'Who said I'm getting married to Ron?' Hermione's voice was becoming decidedly shrill.

In the face of the young witch's growing wrath, Molly suddenly went smug. 'Well, Ron does, for one, and everybody else does, and besides, after spending almost a year on your own with two boys, you ought to be grateful to Ron for making an honest witch of you. With a reputation like yours…' She shrugged meaningfully. 'I'm quite open-minded, so I don't have a problem with it, but believe me, there are mothers who would-'

In one single outburst of raw, uncontrolled magic Hermione made all the pots, bowls and saucepans explode and spill their contents before she left the kitchen. She did, however, have her priorities sorted out: it would've been a grand gesture, leaving without looking back, banging the kitchen door shut and shaking The Burrow's foundations. She did glance back, though, because Molly, covered from head to toe in rapidly cooling Sauce Béchamel, to which salad leaves, onion peels and minced meet were clinging, was a sight she wouldn't have wanted to miss. And only after she'd thoroughly enjoyed the spectacle did she shut the kitchen door with an almighty crash. There was a smile on her face when she heard the lilting clash of Staffordshire figurines on the kitchen's stone floor.

She'd always hated those figurines.

--..--..--

The two Slytherins currently sipping tea in Kingsley Shacklebolt's office would've had less trouble controlling their tempers, firstly because they were Slytherins and secondly because they'd never attributed any value to reputation, the lack thereof, or other people's opinion of them in general. Besides, they didn't have any reason to lose their temper, not at that precise moment anyway.

'You see,' Kingsley said, 'I'm convinced you're clever enough not to do anything stupid in the, say, next ten years. Severus wouldn't have gone to prison in any case, and I suppose we couldn't sentence you' – he shot Lucius Malfoy a sharp glance – 'to more than five years, since you seem to have convinced everybody of your newfound identity as Voldemort's victim. Well, not exactly newfound.'

'Not entirely,' Lucius agreed, inclining his head. 'But it's with identities as it is with clothes, minister – they may go out of fashion for a few years, only to become the epitome of good taste with the next generation. An interesting phenomenon, isn't it? Never ceases to amaze me.'

Severus cleared his throat. The wounds Nagini's fangs had torn had healed well, and the mediwizards had succeeded in purging his body of the remaining venom, but there still was a lingering soreness. 'I suppose,' he said slowly, 'that such generosity doesn't come without a price.'

Kingsley refilled their cups and offered the sugar bowl and milk jug which were politely declined by both his guests. 'I wouldn't call it a price so much as a… stipulation. A proviso, if you will. Then again, I'm sure you're both eager to prove to your fellow wizards the depth of your, erm, commitment to our new society.'

'Since what I've done during the last twenty years somehow doesn't seem to count,' Severus remarked dryly, 'I suppose I have no other choice.'

'Oh, it does count, don't doubt it.' The Minister pulled a face and added sugar to his tea. 'I have no idea how you can drink it unsweetened… Anyway, concerning your past actions, Severus, I appreciate what you've done, believe me, and so do the other Order members. Being the Minister, however, I have to consider things in a larger context.'

'I wonder,' Lucius interjected, 'who coined that phrase. It's really one of the best, on a par with "Appropriate steps shall be taken" and my favourite "We have to regard this situation with an open mind". So basically you have no idea what to do, but are prepared to do anything that will benefit you and help to maintain you in power for as long as possible.'

'That's an unnecessarily harsh way of putting things,' Kingsley replied, sounding rather piqued.

'Maybe, but it's the truth nonetheless.' His fingers playing with the snake-head of his cane, Lucius mustered the minister from under half-closed eyelids. 'So what is it you want? Money?'

'And, since I don't have any, what else?' Severus added.

Kingsley leaned back, arms crossed. 'Well, I certainly wouldn't object to a donation, since the Ministry's finances are somewhat depleted, and there are more than enough good causes… But that's optional.'

'Which of course is all the more reason to do just that,' Lucius said virtuously.

Severus merely snorted.

'What I really do want you to do is something else, though,' Kingsley continued. 'You know – and the two of you probably know a lot better than I do – that many of those who rightly ought to be accused and tried and put behind bars have fled the country, the majority of them to France. Now, my Aurors can't chase them, for two obvious reasons: one, we are terribly understaffed, and two, our jurisdiction ends right at the border. So far, my requests for cooperation, especially to my French colleague, have not met with much enthusiasm. Which is bad, because I'm under pressure here – the media are starting to get interested.'

'Now there's a big surprise,' Lucius said. 'Given Crédit Sorcier's reputation for being discreet even under pressure from outside, do you think anybody who didn't absolutely have to was stupid enough to put their money into a Gringotts vault? The risk of the Goblins collaborating with Scrimgeour was always imminent, and Apparating to Calais is something a Squib could manage. You know the old adage about Crédit Sorcier sneezing and France having a head cold? The French economy would have to face serious problems, if all British customers of dubious reputation retrieved their money from Crédit Sorcier. So of course the French minister isn't keen to cooperate.'

'True, true.' Kingsley took a pensive sip of tea. 'But dead people do have a bit of trouble retrieving their money, if you get my meaning. Or Azkaban prisoners, for that matter. Besides, consider the advantages of being out of the country for a while, capturing rogue Death Eaters, no less. The reputations you'd be able to build…'

Severus closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose. 'Is that what you want us to do?' he finally asked.

'In a nutshell, yes. You may of course keep your wands, but you'll have to stay mostly in the Muggle world. And it might be a good idea to get rid of your more, well, conspicuous characteristics.' He glanced meaningfully at Lucius's blond mane.

The two Slytherins exchanged a look. 'What if we run into trouble?' Severus inquired.

'That depends on which kind of trouble you run into. In case of imminent danger for your lives, each of you will have a portkey that brings you right back into this office. Should the French Aurors cause you problems, you're to report directly back to me as soon as you can. The fireplace we created in your hotel room in Paris has already been connected to the Floo network. You'll be working from Paris and Apparate wherever you need to go.'

Always the one to spot serious problems, Lucius stared at the minister, completely aghast. 'We are to _share_ a room?'

'It's a suite, and that's the best I can do under the circumstances. The budget is already overstretched as it is,' Kingsley replied amiably. 'Besides, establishing one illegal Floo connection was more than enough trouble. Quite a nifty bit of work, if I say so myself.'

Severus, whom a lifetime of thrift and unsuccessful attempts at getting a pay raise had taught the importance of money, frowned. 'I'm not going to pay for that trip with my own money.'

'Of course not. We're going to pay you a premium for every Death Eater you manage to capture, alive or dead, and all expenses will be covered by us, provided they're reasonable.'

'When in Paris, anything is reasonable,' Lucius said, a dreamy smile on his face.

Kingsley rolled his eyes, but had obviously decided not to linger over minutiae. He was a busy man after all, and the files on his desk weren't going to sign themselves. 'One last thing,' he said. 'Miss Hermione Granger put in an application this morning for a Portkey to Paris, to be activated tomorrow at five p.m.. I think that keeping an eye on the girl might benefit both you and her. She's bound to attract enemies like a magnet.'

'Like a cowpat attracts flies, more like,' Severus muttered. 'There goes my dream of glamorous spying – we're to play babysitters to a teenager.' He didn't miss the sudden glint in Lucius's eyes though. Lucius had seen the girl writhe on his carpet, and once Lucius had seen a woman writhing – little did it matter whether in embarrassment, pain or ecstasy – he wanted to see her writhe again. Generally underneath him, deprived of clothing but playing temporary host to one or more of his body parts.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO - On s'y montre, on s'y cache / One Shows Oneself, One Hides There

If Hermione had expected Ron to be cross with her for having fallen out with his mother, she'd badly miscalculated. Not only was Ron full of admiration for her, because she'd stood up to the almighty mother-monster, he also fervently denied Molly's allegations concerning wedding bells.

'Of course I want to us to be together,' he said earnestly, although the look of serious concentration on his face might have owed to his teeth currently being stuck in a Lockjaw Liquorice (LOCKJAW LIQUORICE – IMPERIUS COULDN'T MAKE YOU SHUT IT!). 'But marriage seems like such an important step, and we're still so young. I think we ought to finish school first, and then enjoy life for a bit before taking such a momentous decision.'

These words of wisdom, although Hermione wholeheartedly agreed, didn't sound very much like Ron. She suspected that Bill might've had a word with his baby brother. Whoever had put these ideas into Ron's head, they were certainly the right thoughts, only at the wrong time. Hermione didn't want Ron to be reasonable and mature, because she wanted to have a row with him – since her return the day before from The Burrow she'd done some serious soul-searching and come to the conclusion that a) Ron and she being a couple was a big mistake, and consequently b) she wanted to go to Paris on her own. Suggesting that Ron accompany her had been a bad move, and if he'd only sided with his mum… But that obviously wasn't going to happen. Ron was sitting in her living room, bright and bushy-tailed and eager to join her.

'You don't have any luggage,' she pointed out in a last attempt to salvage her solo trip.

''course I do. I packed my bag ages ago!' He triumphantly fished a miniature travelling bag from his pocket. 'What are we waiting for? Activate the Portkey, why don't you?'

'But…' Hermione bit her lip. 'If your mum finds out – I really don't want you to get into serious trouble with her.'

For a moment she thought she'd won.

'Never mind,' Ron said, face brightening. 'She'll get over it.'

'But she'll be beside herself with worry!'

'I'll send an owl once we arrive.'

Visions of Molly Weasley bursting into their hotel room, wand drawn, arose in Hermione's mind. Then again, if played carefully, this might make an excellent pretext for not having sex. She briefly wondered how she could ever have thought seriously of having sex with Ron, but decided not to give the matter too much consideration. Maybe the trip to Paris was a blessing in disguise (a disguise so well chosen that the blessing was practically unrecognizable though), because there would be enough time for her to explain to him why a relationship wasn't a good idea. There were going to be just the two of them, so he would have to listen to her for once… Yes, maybe this was the solution to her problems.

--..--..--

'I would have expected the Ritz,' Lucius muttered. He turned once around himself and gave the bedroom a thorough look-over. Nose wrinkling, he stalked towards the bed and pinched the corner of a pillow between thumb and forefinger. 'The only thing lower than the thread count of this linen is Jeremy Baxter's IQ!'

'The Ritz,' Severus said, choosing to overlook Lucius's plaintive attitude, 'would've been far too conspicuous. Should rumours get out about our trip to France, where do you think people would search for you?'

'At Versailles, I hope.'

'Lucius, Versailles is a museum now. People don't live there anymore.'

Lucius's eyes went wide. 'You don't say! When did that happen?'

'Does the French Revolution ring a bell?'

'Since "revolution" usually means unwashed oiks hanging around on priceless period furniture, wondering whether to guzzle champagne out of the bottle or use cognac snifters, I daresay the subject isn't overly interesting.' He opened the window and looked out at the Arc de Triomphe. 'It's awfully hot. I shall have to alter the fabric of some of my Muggle attire.'

Already busy unpacking, Severus looked over his shoulder at his friend. 'Are you saying you specifically bought Muggle clothes?'

'Mmmh. I thought it was a good idea – clothes are so difficult to get right by transfiguring. It's the details, you know. We might not notice, but other people do, and that might lead to trouble. Oh, I almost forgot, I have something for you.' He performed a spell that opened his suitcase and made all his belongings sort themselves into the right cupboards and drawers, neatly pressed and folded.

'Show-off!' Severus muttered. A heavy object came flying towards him, and he deftly caught it. 'What's that?'

'Men's Vogue, the latest issue. So you have something to work with, when you transfigure your robes.'

Frowning, Severus leafed through the magazine. 'Those guys are all half my age! I couldn't wear that!'

'Don't be so difficult, Severus!' Lucius sat down on the bed next to him. 'Look at them! They're all tall, dark, moody and as thin as chopsticks, just like you. Maybe a little younger than you, but I daresay the skirt isn't _de rigeur_. And don't look at the preview for next summer, that's avant-garde, for heaven's sake! You ought to go by the adverts, especially Armani!'

'This is most disquieting, Lucius. How come you're suddenly so knowledgeable? Not as far as the French Revolution is concerned, but still…'

'It always pays to keep an open mind, old friend.' Lucius patted the other wizard's shoulder with a particularly supercilious smirk. 'And now, while you're busy creating your wardrobe, I think I'll try to locate the lovely Miss Granger. We've got wards to put in place.'

--..--..--

The lovely Miss Granger had arrived in Paris, boyfriend in tow, about an hour earlier than the two Slytherins. She'd chosen a small hotel only four underground stops away from the Hôtel de Ville – boutique hotel, the lady at the travel agent's had called it. A discreetly applied Confundus Charm disposed of the receptionist's wish to see their passports, and soon enough they'd taken possession of their room.

Ron eyed the separate beds with an expression very akin to disgust. 'They probably made a mistake with your reservation.'

'No, they didn't,' Hermione replied, avoiding his eyes. 'I just thought that, if your mother comes after us, maybe it would be better not to be found sleeping in the same bed.'

'Since we're in Paris, she'd expect us to have sex. Stands to reason, doesn't it?'

'That's the silliest thing I've ever heard. Do you think John Paul II has sex when he comes to Paris?'

'If he came with his girlfriend, he sure would. Who's John Paul, by the way?'

If this was how things were going to continue… Hermione counted to ten, clenched and unclenched her fists, then counted to hundred. It didn't have much of an effect. Fortunately, though, there was one topic always sure to draw Ron's mind away from whatever he was thinking about. 'It's seven already,' she said, 'and all the museums will probably be closing soon. Why don't I take you out to dinner? Fleur told me about this lovely restaurant – we'll have to Apparate though, and it's Muggle, so you better get changed.'

'But Muggles _do_ wear jeans,' Ron whined, hugging his knees as if Hermione were trying to rip his trousers off him. Little did he know that she had no such plans.

'They do, but we aren't going for a quick lunch. This is dinner, Ron, and we're in Paris. You'll have to make a bit of an effort.'

Had she told him to clean his ears, he couldn't have been more offended. 'What's wrong with my clothes?'

'There's nothing intrinsically wrong with them. You'll have to trust me on this. I know how Muggles dress for dinner at a nice restaurant. You can wear jeans, no problem. I'll just have to make them look a bit cleaner and, erm, newer. The Weasley jumper will have to go, though. It's far too hot here, for one.' A few deft movements of her wand later, Ron was clad in jeans, a white polo shirt and a black jacket. 'There. That looks nice, doesn't it?'

'That's probably how Finch-Fletchley dresses for dinner with the old mater. Looks bloody posh, if you ask me.'

It cost her an almost superhuman effort to suppress the impulse to answer, 'Well, I don't.' Another flick of Hermione's wand changed a pair of dirty trainers into shiny black loafers and black silk socks. 'Now it does look a bit posh,' she said with a grin. 'But really very nice. You'll have to excuse me for five minutes, I have some dressing-up to do as well.' Already heading towards the bath, she tossed him the TV remote. 'Have fun.'

--..--..--

While the waiter was opening a bottle of Château d'Yquem, Lucius subjected the young couple on the other side of the restaurant to thorough observation and shook his head. 'I must say, it's completely beyond me how the Weasley boy could've had the taste to choose Chez Bernard. Or the hotel, come to think of it. It's very nice, if a bit on the small side.'

'We'd never have finished the protection spells in time for dinner, if it was a large hotel. But I suppose she chose both,' Severus said, nose twitching at the mingling aromas of well-matured Reblochon cheese and fifty-year-old wine.

'That's a possibility, if not a very traditional one.'

'She's Muggleborn, Lucius. They don't go for old-fashioned.'

The waiter left them to their wine and cheese platter, and for a while the two wizards ate in reverent silence. 'I guess,' Lucius observed, 'we'll have to look after the girl even if they don't go to gourmet restaurants every day. That's definitely a drawback.'

'I agree.' Severus inhaled deeply and took a sip of the liquid golden fruit in his glass. 'This is marvellous.' He drank again, then rededicated his attention to the selection of cheeses. 'On the other hand, Miss Granger is so very interested in culture – at least we'll be going sightseeing, even though we'll probably have to survive on junk food.'

'French junk food, though.'

'There's that, yes. I wonder…' Severus paused and toyed with the seam of his napkin.

'Whether we'll be able to seduce her away from carrot head? Of course we will.'

Grinning very much against his will – the last thing Lucius needed when in such a mood was encouragement – Severus said reprovingly, 'No, that was not what I was thinking.'

'Why not? After all, she's a very pretty girl, and clever too. One could actually talk to her after the sex. Hell, I guess she even talks during sex. Besides, being in our bed would guarantee her safety.'

'A very creative interpretation of the term bodyguard, but certainly not what Kingsley had in mind.'

'Probably not. And maybe' – Lucius shot his friend a speculative look – 'she wouldn't be much fun anyway.'

'Don't try to bait me, Lucius. Of course she'd be fun. She's a young girl, and young girls are, at least in my experience, lots of fun in bed. Given our altered looks, we might even stand a chance – surprise tactics are often quite successful.' He eyed Lucius's short hair. 'But I was alluding to something else: the Weasley boy will most certainly balk at the second museum, if not at the first. He's as likely as the girl to draw the attention of our former brethren, so what do we do if they go separate ways?'

'We can split up, if you like,' Lucius said magnanimously, 'so long as I get to watch the young lady.'

'A fine friend you are. No, I have no intention of following Weasley on his utterly predictable route. It'll be porn shops alternating with cheap food, and I don't really see myself lingering next to porn shops or stuffing my face with hamburgers. I'd say we take turns following them, if they separate.'

'Fine.' Lucius cast him a morose look. 'If you insist. But only if you promise that _you'll_ explain the expenses bill to Kingsley. Because' – he grinned fiendishly – 'I will most certainly not linger _outside_ those porn shops.'

--..--..--

On their second morning in Paris Hermione was absolutely and beyond any doubt sure that a) going to Paris with Ron had been her worst mistake since she'd developed that crush on Lockhart, and that b) she was going to kill him if he continued to behave like he had the previous thirty-six hours.

Their dinner on the first evening hadn't been what one would call a raving success, but the food had been divine, and they'd muddled through a few hours' conversation. Ron had had a lot to drink, and so there hadn't been any need for them to discuss sleeping arrangements upon returning to the hotel, because he'd fallen asleep right after entering their room.

The first day had been dedicated to visiting the Louvre – when Ron found out that it contained lots of pictures and statues of naked women, he'd followed her rather docilely. They'd been on their feet for many hours, interrupted only by a brief lunch and not much longer dinner, which meant that pleading a headache and tiredness at bedtime hadn't been much of a problem.

Painted naked ladies who didn't move or talk had, however, obviously lost their appeal, as had France in general and French food in particular.

'I want bacon,' Ron said sullenly, as the waiter put a basket of croissants on their table.

'You'll be able to survive a few days without bacon,' was Hermione's brittle reply.

'I don't want to survive, I want to enjoy my breakfast.'

'Then enjoy the croissants, they're very good.'

'They're just baked air. I want something solid.'

'Well, you can't have bacon, because this is France and they don't cater to English eating habits.'

'And I bet,' Ron grumbled, tearing a croissant in half with the expression of a pathologist examining a particularly unsavoury corpse, 'that it's going to be another museum today. How many bloody museums do they have in Paris? Just so I can prepare myself.'

'I don't want to see them all. Just the Musée d'Orsay, which we can do today, as it's cold and rainy, and the Musée Picasso. That's quite small, it won't take us more than two hours. Well, and maybe the Musée de Cluny.'

Ron, whose mind had wandered off on a tangential road as soon as Hermione started using French words, suddenly said, 'I wonder if they've got Quidditch shops here.'

The mere mention of the word Quidditch did amazing things to Hermione's blood pressure. She pretended to be chewing while she counted to hundred. 'I should think they don't – Quidditch isn't exactly popular over here. It's an English sport, like cricket. But,' she added, amazed at her own deviousness, 'why don't you have a look round while I'm at the Musée d'Orsay? I don't mind going on my own.'

'Too dangerous,' Ron said thickly through half a croissant he'd stuffed into his mouth. 'Don't you remember dad saying that many of You-Know-Who's sympathizers had left the country and gone to France?'

'You don't need to call him You-Know-Who anymore,' Hermione said in a tone of exaggerated patience. 'It's okay to call him Voldemort now, you know? Besides, somehow I don't think Death Eaters would fancy looking at Impressionist paintings.'

'They're not the only ones.' Ron flushed his bite down with a gulp of café au lait. 'Anyway, you're not going on your own. You'll be so busy looking at piccies, Malfoy could sneak up behind you and you wouldn't notice. No, no, I'm coming with you. Mum would have my head if anything happened to you.'

Such consideration for her wellbeing somehow failed to move Hermione's heart. 'Ron,' she hissed, putting down her cup and glaring, 'I'm more than able to take care of myself. Go look for Quidditch shops, it's not a problem.'

But the idea of staunch, if misguided, chivalry somehow seemed to have taken root in Ron's mind. It wasn't what one would call fecund soil, but certain lichens are known to grow on solid rock.

--..--..--

'Five galleons says he'll storm out before noon.' Lucius, who was obviously enjoying his Muggle outfit _du jour_ of jeans, white shirt and a hideously expensive, dark grey cashmere jumper, held out his hand.

'Don't keep trying to flick your hair, Lucius. It's short now, and you look as if you've got a nervous tic. Five galleons says he'll stay with her till after lunch. Is this shirt supposed to be so tight?'

Lucius gave him an expert look-over. 'The word is close-fitting, not tight, Severus. You're just not used to it. It looks good. Your chromatic imagination leaves something to be desired though.'

Shrugging, Severus ran a hand down his leather-clad arm. 'I like black.'

'I know you like black, but it makes you rather recognizable.'

'For heaven's sake, Lucius, nobody would even dare to think it's me – short hair and jeans are more than enough disguise. Oh look, they're arguing again!'

'That's number seven, I think.' Lucius passed a hand through his new haircut. 'You know,' he said, 'wearing it short might even prove to be an advantage – you have no idea how difficult it is to maintain an erection when your hair gets caught between your partner and the sheets. Very painful.'

'That's mostly your fault, for always wanting to be on top.'

'It's a Malfoy thing. We just can't stand not being on top. Do you think we might move a bit closer? I'd love to eavesdrop – there's nothing like a good fight between an intelligent woman and a red-haired pillock.'

Severus cast a mild Confundus Charm, just strong enough to make them seem so much less interesting than the exhibits. 'All right, let's go.'

The two men had been standing maybe twenty yards away from the young couple who'd started – or rather Hermione had started – their tour at the topmost level. Slowly, Severus and Lucius inched from the corridor into room 30. Hermione, red-faced and visibly trying to control a homicidal impulse, had wandered a bit nearer towards the door. Severus was beginning to wonder if maybe they'd got their bet all wrong; maybe she'd be the one to leave. But no, she turned and waved to Ron to join her.

'Look,' Hermione said, 'isn't this beautiful? It's The Ball, by Dégas.' She was clearly making an effort to keep the peace, Severus thought, but her strained tone of voice gave her away. Though not to the Weasley boy, obviously.

'As far as I can see,' Ron muttered, 'these are all by Dagos. No, wait, this one's by Whistler, and that too!' He pointed at a painting on the opposite wall. 'Why on earth would anybody want to paint people polishing parquet floors? And what kind of name is Caillebotte?' The way he pronounced it, the artist's illustrious name rhymed with halibut. 'This is weird. And why aren't there any naked women?'

'You want naked women?' They didn't have to make an effort anymore; Hermione's voice was now clearly audible. 'All right, I'll show you naked women!'

Highly amused, Severus and Lucius strolled down to the ground floor after them, exchanging comments on the way about how Hermione was ruthlessly dragging her hapless boyfriend through the crowds.

'Very well,' she said, slightly out of breath, when they'd arrived in room 19. 'Here you go.'

Severus felt a brief pang of sympathy for Ron, when Lucius suddenly jerked him behind a fat German couple by his arm. 'What's the matter?' he hissed.

Any trace of light-hearted bonhomie gone from his face, Lucius indicated the corridor by a small movement of his head. 'Out there,' he whispered.

The Germanic heavyweights lurched further into the room, and the two wizards were careful to stay covered behind them. 'Is that Baxter?' Severus murmured.

'I think it is.' Lucius bent slightly to look past their human shields. 'Yes, definitely Baxter. You can't see it from where you're standing, but he's wearing a pink leotard under his coat. Not the most fortunate of disguises I'd say.'

'Do you think he spotted them?'

'The way he's glaring in their direction, I'd rather say he did.'

Severus shook his head. 'But… Baxter? The man can't find his own arse unless he has a map and three people to help him. What's he doing here anyway?'

'That,' Lucius replied tersely, 'is of comparatively little interest right now. You stay here to watch the kids, while I – oh, _fuck_!'

This last remark had been caused by Ron who, obviously highly unsatisfied by the single naked lady in Manet's "Déjeuner sur l'herbe", had just won Lucius five galleons. He was already halfway through the room and about to run straight into Jeremy Baxter. In spite of his proverbial dimness, the Death Eater only had to reach out and grab the boy, and once he'd Disapparated them both, finding them again wasn't going to be easy.

Fortunately for the two Slytherins, Baxter was even more dim-witted than they'd given him credit for. Instead of simply sticking out his right foot and thus tripping Ron, he let the boy walk past him and set out to follow him.

'I don't believe it,' Severus said, but Lucius was already gone. There was nothing he could do now, except stay close to the Granger girl and carefully survey the surroundings. Lucius was well able to defend himself, even if Baxter's presence – and hadn't it been just a little too conspicuous, Severus wondered – had merely been a ploy to separate them and lure Lucius into an ambush.

--..--..--

Hermione wasn't quite sure whether to laugh or cry.

She didn't like scenes, and she'd just made a very public scene – the subdued snickering from the surrounding crowd told her clearly that many of the visitors understood English. Having done things in a less than perfect way always made her feel a bit insecure and dissatisfied with herself.

On the plus side, Ron had stormed out, so she was now free to enjoy a few hours on her own. She would've liked to laugh out aloud with relief, if only… She sighed and decided that shedding a few tears wouldn't do any harm. Because there was a small but highly unpleasant voice that kept muttering things to her mind. Things like, Ron just left, and that's all right, because you just needed a handy pretext for breaking up with him. But Ron isn't so unlike all those other boys, so what if every relationship goes exactly the same way? One day at the museum, and whoosh, off they run as if pursued by Fiendfyre.

Hermione shuddered. Was it _really_ going to be like that? Did boys really stay away from girls who… Her eyes strayed to the painting. Look at that stupid, stupid female, she thought. There she is, sitting naked on the grass with two fully clothed men, who don't even pretend to have any interest in her. She's nothing more than decoration. Is that really what boys want?

When a strong hand gripped her upper arm, she was so shocked that she couldn't even scream.

'Stay quiet, Miss Granger,' a voice whispered into her ear, 'and don't move.'

She knew that voice, only how did it come to be here in Paris? The last time she'd seen him was ten days ago at the Ministry; they'd had a rather civilized conversation in the corridor. 'Professor Snape?' she murmured.

'The very one. You seem to have attracted unwanted attention, Miss Granger. I don't think they've spotted you yet, and I'd rather things remained that way. So don't try to Disapparate or run. We wouldn't want to endanger all these Muggles, now would we?'

Feeling her breath catch in her throat, Hermione merely asked, 'Who?'

'McNair, whom you know, and Beasley, whom you don't know. He's as unpleasant as McNair. There was at least one more, but Lucius has gone after him and Mr. Weasley.'

Hermione's eyes went wide. 'Lucius?' she hissed frantically, 'You mean Lucius Malfoy?'

'Yes, and now shut up. They haven't spotted you yet, and I'm going to hide us, but you must neither talk nor move. Can you do that?'

She merely nodded, too frightened now to speak. What if something happened to Ron? Was Malfoy really to be trusted? And if Ron was hurt or, god forbid, killed, wasn't the blame partly hers?

Then, the chain of unpleasant thoughts was suddenly torn by a rush of colour and air, and Hermione was too busy being bewildered by the sensation of not-quite-shrinking and not-quite-Apparating to dwell on her now-probably-ex-boyfriend's fate.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE - L'un y suit son plaisir / One Seeks His Pleasure There

Once outside the museum, Ron was hit by a few realizations simultaneously: no French, no money, probably no girlfriend, no idea what to do. His brain wasn't made for multiple awarenesses, though, and so he felt rather dizzy and had to sit down on a bench. But the rain coolly drizzling down on his bare head did have a soothing effect (it also turned his hair a slightly more bearable shade of red, which did nothing for his intellectual abilities but was less hard on the eye of the beholder), and so he started thinking.

Elbows propped on his knees and forehead resting on his palms, he tried to make sense of what had just happened. That, however, proved to be a rather arduous task, one that, he was sure, could be accomplished to much better effect on a solid base of lunch in his stomach. This brought him back to the insight that he didn't have any money. But he'd heard of room service, and he knew where their hotel was, so he was just going to Apparate there, tackle the fellytone and order some lunch to be brought to the room, and then set out on the stony path of deep thought.

With a contented sigh at this result of ten minutes' concentrated pondering, Ron raised his head, only to find that a pair of jeans was obscuring his view of the Quai d'Orsay. His eyes travelled upwards, over a white shirt and a dark grey sweater lazily slung around a pair of broad shoulders, until they encountered the face of Lucius Malfoy. Ron gave a most undignified squeal and jumped up, but Malfoy's hand on his shoulder made him sit back down immediately. Probably it was less the hand than the wand Malfoy was keeping up his shirtsleeve. Its tip was nestling between his fore- and middle finger, and Ron felt it press against his clavicle.

Under the unwavering gaze of Malfoy's eyes, Ron suddenly felt very small. Being made to feel small made him angry, and with anger came the sudden realization that Hermione was still in the museum, completely on her own. 'Take me,' Ron stammered breathlessly, 'T-take me, b-but don't hurt Hermione!'

He'd expected Malfoy to sneer and utter words of unparalleled cruelty and contempt, but the man merely laughed. 'That was a stupid thing to say, Weasley, wasn't it? Alerting me to the presence of your girlfriend like this…' He tutted. 'But I have no intention of, erm, taking you, Mr Weasley, whichever sense you choose to attribute to the word.'

As the various semantic values of the verb 'take' began to dawn on him, Ron felt his face go red. 'You pervert!' he spat.

'Don't worry,' Lucius said. 'You're still going to be a virgin when you return to your mother's fond embrace.'

Easily sidetracked at the best of times, and this situation certainly didn't qualify as the best of times, Ron blushed scarlet. 'I'm not a virgin!' he blurted out.

'Be that as it may – and rest assured, the question doesn't evoke even the faintest of interests – you're going home. Now.'

You'd faced the Snatchers, Ron thought dimly but grimly, you'd faced dragons and Potions classes and Voldemort, but what was the bloody point, if the likes of Malfoy didn't respect you but gave you a dressing-down, as if you were a mere child, and…

And then he was on The Burrow's doorstep and wondered whether mum was going to whack him with the frying pan, or if he'd maybe get away with de-gnoming the garden.

--..--..--

'This is highly unpleasant,' Hermione said out of the corner of her mouth.

'I know,' Severus murmured.

'At least you're dressed!'

'True, but the ground is uneven, and there seems to be a stone under my arse. It hurts like hell. My right arm has gone to sleep.'

'So has my left buttock. This veil or whatever it is isn't much good, and the ground is very, very hard.'

There was a short silence.

'Can they hear us?' Hermione finally asked.

'The people in the room? No. But they can see if we move, so we mustn't.'

Hermione sighed. 'Do you think McNair and that guy Beasley can guess which spell you used?'

'I don't think so. It's not exactly public knowledge.'

'That's good. What spell _did_ you use, by the way?'

'It's something Lucius and I developed, while we were at school.'

'A spell to enter the portraits? That must've been fun.'

'Oh it was, it was. The things we got to see…'

'I can imagine. So how does it work? For us, I mean, now we're inside the painting.'

'Miss Granger, I really appreciate your cold-bloodedness and unflappable curiosity. But to explain I'd have to move my lips, and I'd rather not do that more than is absolutely necessary. Therefore I suggest we leave the conversation till after closing time.'

That did make sense, and so Hermione kept herself amused by watching the spectators, trying not to feel a slight tremor of excitement at the sensation of her former teacher's clothes brushing against her naked skin.

--..--..--

Kingsley Shacklebolt raised his head to look at Lucius with an expression of utter bafflement. 'Well,' he finally said, 'that was quick. Is he' – he got up and went round the desk to have a better look at Baxter's unconscious form – 'Is that a pink leotard he's wearing?'

'It does indeed appear to be a leotard.' Lucius prodded the body with the tip of an immaculately polished shoe. 'Jeremy Baxter has always been an idiot, but today he surpassed himself.'

'Was he going after Miss Granger?'

'Yes, he was. The problem is, the girl wasn't on her own – why she should have gone to Paris with the youngest Weasley boy is frankly beyond me, but he was there as well.'

The minister drew a sharp breath. 'That certainly complicates matters. Where is he now?'

'In the pigsty the Weasleys insist on calling their home. I delivered him to his mother – she was very much not amused, but at least she was so overjoyed at having her, erm, baby back that she refrained from hexing me.' Without waiting for Shacklebolt's invitation, Lucius sat down. 'Fudge always used to keep a bottle of Ogden's Very Ancient here for me… Or rather, I left it here and forbade him to touch it, to own the truth. Is it still here? I could use a drink.'

'You kept a hidden stash of alcohol in the Minister's office?'

'Why, yes. Cornelius's taste was awful – can you honestly imagine me drinking Jägermeister?'

'That's not really the point, Lucius. If you managed to hide a bottle here, you could've hidden anything!'

'Of course I could but, as a matter of fact, I didn't. Come now, Kingsley, don't be so pusillanimous. Bygones are bygones, and I'd really like a drink now. You can have one, too,' he added generously.

When both men – Kingsley still shaking his head – were comfortably seated, drinks in hand, Lucius said, 'I have to return to Paris today, Minister. Severus and the girl are still there, and I have a feeling as if Baxter wasn't on his own.'

'We will of course question him once he wakes up.'

'I'm sure you will, but I can't wait that long. I had to leave him at the hotel while I was taking Weasley home, so I hit him with the stunning spell normally used on dragons. It might take him a couple of days to sleep off.'

Kingsley took a sip of whisky and grunted appreciatively. 'Do you have any idea who else might be there? Did Baxter use to be especially close to anybody?'

'That's a bit of a daft question, isn't it, Kingsley? Baxter was close to being a vegetable, on account of his monumental stupidity, but otherwise being a Death Eater and being close is something of an oxymoron. We were bloodthirsty terrorists, not Gryffindor first-years, you know?'

'Erm, yes.' Shacklebolt fingered his diamond stud. 'Yes, but who would he be likely to conspire with?'

'McNair comes to mind. Baxter absolutely idolized him. And where there's McNair, Beasley usually isn't far away.'

'A rather upsetting thought, given both their, well, proclivities.'

'Indeed. That's why I intend to go back right now.' Lucius rose from his chair, draining his glass. 'Contact us as soon as you've questioned this moron.'

'Will do. And, Lucius?'

'Yes, minister?'

'Nice arse!'

'Oh, for heaven's sake!'

'Just so you know you're being appreciated.'

'Oh, fuck off!' Lucius said and Disapparated.

--..--..--

The lights had gone out, and the room was lit only by the dim glow of the lamps showing the way to the emergency exits. Within the picture, Hermione was glad to notice, the light hadn't changed. 'I think it's safe now to move,' she said.

Next to her, Severus got up clumsily and rubbed his right wrist. 'I thought they were never going to close.' He cast a look at the surroundings and quickly glanced away when his eyes registered Hermione's state of total undress. 'Get some clothes on you!' he barked.

Too busy examining her new body, Hermione didn't heed his command. 'These are really nice boobs,' she said, more to herself than to her former teacher. 'Mine aren't as big. And the hair's fantastic!' She passed a hand over her head.

Unable to refrain himself from ogling her, Severus abruptly turned his back. 'I said get dressed, Miss Granger!'

'Oh.' Suddenly aware of her nakedness – Adam and Eve must've felt that way, she thought, after eating the forbidden apple – she cast about for something to wear. 'I don't have anything except this flimsy thing,' she finally said, holding out the veil. 'Oh, and' – she bent over, making Severus gasp and cover his eyes with his hands – 'this seems to be a dress, but…' She eyed the garment suspiciously. 'I think Manet didn't do a very good job painting it. It's not humanly possible to put it on.'

Severus merely uttered a low growl and took off his jacket. 'Wrap that veil, or whatever it is, around you like a skirt, and wear this,' he snapped, holding the jacket out to her.

'Good thinking.' Hermione grinned at him. 'What about the other two?' She pointed at the man still stretched out on the ground next to them, and at the young woman obviously gathering flowers in the background. 'They don't seem to be alive – I could take his clothes off and use them myself.'

'Are you decent?'

'I am now, but would you kindly answer my question?'

'First things first,' Severus said. 'Now that you are finally clothed, let's go to that river over there and drink some water, and then I suggest we have some of that fruit and the bread roll, and then we talk.'

Only now did Hermione notice that she was quite thirsty and more than a bit hungry, and so she followed Snape to the background of the painting, where there was indeed a river. The other woman – Hermione saw with a pang of envy that she wasn't wearing a half-transparent sarong and a man's jacket but a very nice muslin dress – was still kneeling motionlessly, her hand buried in the grass.

'So,' she said when they'd made themselves comfortable leaning against a tree trunk, 'you've got a lot to explain.'

Severus rolled his eyes. 'I know. Ask away, Miss Granger.'

'You're being very accommodating, Professor. Or shouldn't I call you Professor?'

'Call me Severus, for all I care. I've seen you naked, so using first names seems only appropriate.'

'You haven't really seen _me_, because this isn't my body. But I know what you mean. Are you going to call me Hermione then?'

'Unless you have any objections, yes, I will.'

'All right. So, Severus, why are you in Paris?'

'Shacklebolt sent us to France-'

'Us? Who is us?'

'Lucius and my good self. Shackle-'

'Lucius? You mean Lucius Malfoy was sent here by the _minister_?'

'My dear Miss Granger-'

'Hermione.'

'Hermione. My dear Hermione, answering your incessant questions would be difficult enough without constant interruptions.'

'Sorry. But why Malfoy?'

Severus sighed and muttered something that sounded like Merlin, give me strength. 'I can't go into the details. Lucius and I were sent here by Shacklebolt to carry out a, well, mission. Part of that mission was to keep an eye on you, because you might attract unsavoury company. And I'm not speaking of Mr Weasley.'

'Is he safe, do you think?'

'I daresay he is. Lucius went after him and Baxter.'

The sudden relief almost made her cry. Ron maybe wasn't prime boyfriend material, but he was still her friend. 'That's good to hear,' she said and surreptitiously wiped her eyes on the rough cloth of her sleeve. 'So it's true what Ron's dad said. The ministry didn't manage to capture any of the Death Eaters, and many of them did flee to France. Why France, by the way?'

'Lucius will be better able to explain that. Provided he finds us. But,' Severus said, trying to sound more confident than he was feeling, 'I'm sure he will.'

'Well, if he doesn't find us,' Hermione observed reasonably, 'we'll simply find him. We merely have to wait for the right moment to get out of this picture.'

A heavy silence followed.

'Erm.' Hermione cleared her throat. 'Aren't you supposed to say, Yes, Hermione, that's exactly what we'll do?'

'N-no. You see, we can't get out. Lucius has to perform the spell.'

'Oh.'

'Yes. That's, well, why I said I'm confident that Lucius will find us. Sooner or later.'

'But you aren't.'

'Well, I am, but since we can't be sure what happened after he left the building…'

Hermione tried to swallow the lump that had suddenly formed in her throat. 'So, if there was some kind of accident… If McNair killed him, we've got to stay here for…' The lump was getting bigger by the second. 'Forever,' she finished her sentence, but her voice wasn't quite steady. 'Can we at least do magic?'

'It may have escaped your attention, but we don't have our wands.'

'That's right,' she said tonelessly. 'We don't have our…' And then the lump dissolved into tears of helplessness.

Lost for words, Severus rubbed his face and noticed with horror that he had a beard. As if things weren't already looking gloomy enough… 'Now look,' he finally said, cautiously putting an arm around Hermione's shoulders, 'I know it's probably the shock and all… Anyway, you shouldn't be feeling desperate.'

'And ho-how exact-exactly am I sup-posed t-to feel?' Hermione hiccupped.

'You're supposed to use that superior intellect of yours. You're supposed to consider that Lucius has survived this far, and therefore isn't likely to give up the habit. He's a fighter, and a survivor. He's fought more dangerous opponents than McNair-'

'Like what?' Hermione interrupted him. 'Like a bunch of fifth-years?'

'There were others, trust me, Hermione. He will come back for us-'

'For you,' she said, glaring up at him.

'For you as well. And he'll search for us, and when he doesn't find us, he'll go back to where he last saw us both, which was in this very room. And then he'll look at all the paintings, and then-'

Hermione yelped. 'And then he'll see me naked! Shit, Lucius Malfoy is going to see me naked!'

'But it's not your body, you just said so yourself.'

'As if he cared!'

'There's a grain of truth in that remark,' Severus conceded, amused despite their dire predicament. 'Anyway, once we're out of here, we'll both be fully clothed and have our wands back.' This assurance was answered by a wet sound that might have been a snort. 'Blow your nose,' he said, trying to sound severe.

'I'd like to, but there isn't anything to blow it on.'

With a sigh, Severus reached for the discarded dress Manet had done such a shoddy job of painting. 'Use this.'

'Any art historian would throw a fit,' Hermione murmured, but she obediently trumpeted into the chiffon frills.

'Wait until they discover we've eaten all the food,' Severus said. 'And now I think an eyeful of sleep would do us some good.'

'What if we don't wake up in time?'

'I'm a very light sleeper. The slightest noise or movement is bound to wake me.' He stretched out on the grass and attempted to find a comfortable position. 'This is bloody murder on my back.'

Instead of answering, Hermione merely curled up against him and gave a contented sigh. 'You're being very nice,' she muttered. 'I saw the memories you gave Harry, so I already knew you could actually be nice, but it's a good thing you're being nice now. Otherwise…' She sighed deeply and closed her eyes. 'You even said my intellect was superior.'

A few minutes went by in silence, while Hermione's breathing grew slower and more regular. The resilience of youth, Severus thought dimly and moved so her head was pillowed on his shoulder. She was a bit heavy, but the warmth emanating from her body was rather reassuring. It was going to be a long night, was Severus's last thought before he, too, fell asleep.

--..--..--

When Lucius returned to Paris, it was too late to go back to the museum. Although he would never have admitted as much to anybody but Severus, his knowledge of all things Muggle went much further than people generally assumed. There were things a pureblooded Death Eater simply wasn't supposed to know, such as for example the fact that Muggles had invented devices very similar to alarm spells in order to protect their treasures. A nightly visit to the Musée d'Orsay was therefore out of the question.

Severus wasn't in their room, and the Granger girl wasn't at her hotel, and various tracing charms hadn't yielded any result, not even the illegal ones. Going back to the museum seemed like the obvious starting point, but that would have to wait till the next day.

Sure now that Baxter hadn't acted on his own, Lucius had tried to identify McNair and Beasley's whereabouts as well, without expecting a result though. Well, he hadn't got one, which wasn't surprising, since the two wizards were likely to have taken any possible precaution against being found. Lucius was fairly certain they hadn't spotted him, but it wouldn't do to take any superfluous risks. So he ordered a light supper – just a nice Chateaubriand, with all the trimmings of course, to keep him going, and a soufflé au Grand Marnier, a bit of cheese and two bottles of wine – to be brought up to the room, added a few wards of his own creation to those they'd already put in place, made himself comfortable and started to ponder his situation in earnest.

He wasn't the kind of man who drew happiness or even contentment from things like sunrises, dew drops on rose petals or the wind whispering through a summer meadow. Still, he couldn't quite get rid of the feeling that he'd been incredibly lucky. A month after Voldemort's final defeat, he was free, he was rich, and if his wife and son weren't talking to him, well, that had to be borne with equanimity. He'd been quite fond of Narcissa, until the point in time, that is, when he'd come to the shocking realization that a) she hadn't moved a finger to get him out of prison, b) she'd been making passes at Severus while her husband was languishing in Azkaban, pretending to offer payback for the Unbreakable Vow she'd persuaded Severus to take, c) she'd dropped Lucius like a hot potato the moment Voldemort and Bellatrix had taken over the manor.

The warmth of his feelings for his wife had diminished considerably.

The self-righteous attitude she'd adopted after it was all over had done nothing to increase their temperature.

After careful contemplation, Lucius decided that he'd stay married to her, but once this French interlude was over, he was going permanently to relegate her to one of the family's numerous smaller estates. He'd lost, but he wasn't a loser, and he was loath to live in the same house as the woman who'd so quickly forgotten the loyalty she owed her husband and gone over to the side of power.

Lucius reached this conclusion at the same time as he arrived at the bottom of the first bottle of wine, and when he opened the second one, he was ready to direct his attention to the current problem.

Baxter had been taken care of and would surely be eager to spill all his secrets once he woke up. As Lucius had already told Shacklebolt, McNair and Beasley did seem like the most probable co-conspirators. As to the purpose of their – hopefully! – failed attempt at capturing the Granger girl, well, there weren't that many possibilities. Had the ministry managed to capture any rogue Death Eaters, exchanging one war hero for all the prisoners might have been what they had in mind. With no Death Eaters in Azkaban, the likeliest motive was the extortion of ransom money, or, taking into consideration McNair and Beasley's penchant towards cruelty for cruelty's sake, it might just be blood, torture and a slow, agonising death.

Since Lucius knew for a fact that both McNair and Beasley had hoarded away more gold than they could ever hope to spend in the depths of Crédit Sorcier's vaults, money seemed like the less realistic option. So it was probably bloodlust.

Although not opposed to killing people when it was strictly necessary, Lucius couldn't bring himself to condone something as tasteless and essentially useless and messy as raping and cutting up young girls. Young girls were there to be seduced so they came to your bed willingly, to be tasted and cajoled into doing things they would never have dreamed of doing. But where was the fun, where was the challenge in tying them up and brutalizing them? He'd never understood it, and he'd always deeply despised McNair and the likes of him for enjoying it. It wasn't a question of morals, because morals always had a loophole so you could lie your way out. It was a matter of style; the laws of style were a good deal more strict than moral principles, which was probably the reason why most people pretended that following the latter made you a Good Person while obeying the former made you a Superficial Tosser.

Only an uncultured brute like McNair, who enjoyed slaughtering animals, could possibly take pleasure in the stench of blood and other bodily effluvia… Lucius shuddered. The Granger girl may be Muggleborn, but she was clever and quite pretty. Besides she'd testified in his favour, so he owed her.

His thoughts were becoming a little incoherent, Lucius noticed. He'd better get some sleep then, so as to be well rested for his mission.

--..--..--

Despite her reputation of being a fearsome matriarch, Molly Weasley had never managed to subdue any of her brood permanently. With the exception of Percy, of course, but then Percy had already been born subdued and probably asked the midwife whether it would be a frightful bother if he uttered his first piercing scream.

Percy's siblings, however, had never been afraid of their mother. They'd grown used to putting on a show of tame obedience in the face of her wrath, but as soon as they were out of the reach of her frying pan, they dropped the mask and did exactly as they pleased.

Ron was no different from his brothers and sisters in that respect, and his mother reading him the riot act after the Lutetian adventure had merely served to increase his sense of having been badly wronged. While busy de-gnoming the garden, he told and retold himself the events of the day, and by dinnertime he was convinced that the brief explanation Malfoy had given his mother was nothing but a smokescreen, and that Malfoy had merely disposed of him in order to be free to go after Hermione, capture her and do unspeakable things to her. The fact that Molly, who really wasn't one of Lucius's biggest fans, had swallowed the story without a question and even thanked Malfoy for bringing back her son, unharmed and in one piece, was easy to overlook. Mum had clearly lost her marbles, and so had Dad, who had sternly admonished Ron and made him promise to stay put at The Burrow.

Back in his room after dinner (but without pudding – when it came to punishment, Molly had her principles) Ron arrived at the conclusion that he'd have to do Something About It, and he'd have to do it all by himself. Harry, to whom he would normally have turned, only had eyes for Ginny these days. The sound of the door to the left of Ron's room being opened and closed almost noiselessly, and then of the door to the right of Ron's room being discreetly knocked on had been enough to confirm Ron's suspicions. Harry was busy shagging Ginny and, for once, Ron would have to save the world on his own.

Apparating back to Paris wasn't an option; the longest distance he'd ever Apparated was from Ottery St. Catchpole to London. Cross-channel Apparition was something entirely different, and certainly not to be undertaken lightly. Unfortunately he'd never paid attention when people made illegal Portkeys, which meant that he'd have to go by broom. Paris wasn't that far away, was it?

When the last light had gone out and The Burrow lay in complete darkness, Ron made sure his wand was safely up his sleeve, tiptoed down to the kitchen to prepare a few sandwiches and, munching one after he'd shrunk the remaining five and put them into a matchbox which he slipped into his back pocket, he sneaked out of the house and towards the broom shed.

He'd already mounted the broom, when a sudden inspiration made him hop off and go back to the house. He didn't speak any French and had never quite got the hang of translation spells. So he quietly sneaked into the living room and searched for Fleur's old French-English dictionary. Paris may not be far away, but surely two hours on his broom would be enough to absorb the basics of French. Besides he had a French sister-in-law, that ought to count for something with Les Frogs.

--..--..--

In her eighteen years, three months, five days and seven hours of time-turner-extended earthly existence, Hermione had woken up in various states: hungry, excited, happy, anxious and always alone in her bed. There had even been a few instances of waking up wet and aroused, but she'd had a bit of trouble admitting that to herself, because the state of wet arousal hadn't been caused by dreams of Ron or any other suitable male.

Deeply upsetting though it was, there had only ever been two recurring dream prototypes that had left her wondering whether writing ten feet of Charms essays was really the most satisfactory experience life had to offer her: one of them started with the skirmish at the Ministry of Magic, but events didn't unroll in exactly the same way they had done in real life. She and the others fled from the room of prophecies all right, but then there was a squadron of Aurors who captured all the Death Eaters except for Malfoy. While everybody was wandering around the Department of Mysteries, looking for Malfoy, the blond Death Eater sneaked up behind her, silenced her with his hand over her mouth and dragged her off into a small closet that contained nothing but shelves chock full of jars of mango chutney. Once safely secluded there, he proceeded to kiss and touch her… Much to Hermione's regret, they'd never gone beyond snogging. Mango chutney was sometimes involved, though.

The other dream began traditionally in the Potions classroom – although there were variations, with her being in Professor Snape's office – where everybody was brewing the Draught of Living Death. Only Hermione was staring disconsolately at a cauldron full of bouillabaisse, anxious that the strong smell of fish and garlic might cause her teacher to think that something wasn't quite right with her potion. And he inevitably moved nearer and nearer to her worktable, until he was standing so close that she had to tilt back her head to look at him. Sometimes the dream would end right there, but on better days Professor Snape slowly lowered his mouth to her exposed throat, while his hand played with the loose thread at the seam of her skirt. Unlike the mango chutney, the bouillabaisse never played a part in that scenario, which probably was a good thing.

Given the relatively innocent nature of those dreams, waking up wet and aroused because she was humping her former teacher's leg was definitely a first.

Hermione bit her lip to suppress the yelp of embarrassment that wanted out. Then she remembered Severus's assurance that the slightest of movements was sure to wake him. Cautious not to stir too much, she turned her head and looked at him. He was fast asleep. She turned the other way to scrutinize their surroundings – room 19 was still dark. So far, so good. But she was still in the same position as before and didn't dare move her leg for fear of disturbing Severus's sleep.

'Fine,' she muttered to herself, 'that's what I'd call being caught between a rock and a hard… Oh god!' There wasn't a rock, but there was definitely a hard place. Maybe less a place than a… thing. Well, cock. 'Fine,' she repeated. 'I'm in a painting, I'm not wearing any underwear, I'm feeling so horny that I could shag just about anybody, and here's Professor Snape…' Erect and fast asleep, her mind completed the sentence.

An evil grin spread over Hermione's face. Being in a painting, not wearing any underwear and alone with one of the protagonists of her erotic dreams wasn't necessarily a bad thing. It was certainly better than being in a hotel room with Ron and having to find excuses for not wanting to have sex with him. The body she was currently inhabiting wasn't hers, and Professor Snape, well, Severus, wasn't in his own body either, and that was kind of exciting, too, come to think of it. Her hand crept back to the hard place and began to explore.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR - Tout s'y fait, vaste grand comme il est / Anything Goes There, Vast and Grand As It Is

Getting an idea of the size of Paris might have been helpful. Maybe it would also have been a fortuitous decision not to land smack in the centre of the city – Ron still didn't know which city it was, only that it definitely wasn't Paris – but in some secluded spot with, well, fewer policemen. He would probably have been able to determine where he was. And being arrested would have been less likely. Ron wasn't quite sure whether he'd actually been arrested – the six policemen, who'd shaken their heads at the single word he'd hitherto uttered, i.e. 'Paris?', had formed a circle around him and were listening with obvious interest and barely concealed glee to his attempts at mastering their language.

'Bong newt,' he said tentatively.

The policemen grinned and sketched mock-salutes.

Fortunately the phrasebook was still in his hand. 'Sher Swiss Ungleese,' Ron said. This was easier than he'd expected.

One of the policemen snorted. 'Ah, les Anglais… Ils ont vraiment le don des langues.'*

'Moi, je crois qu'il est Suisse,'** his colleague said.

Things were going swimmingly. Ron felt rather proud of himself. 'Moi' – he pointed at himself and then pantomimed "I'm looking for" in the internationally acknowledged manner, by bending forward and shading his eyes with his hand – 'shurn fill.'

'Il pense qu'il est une jeune fille?' ***

The policemen tittered.

'Moi' – Ron felt he was really getting into this – 'alley a Paris. Maintenance. Shurn fill grand problem.'

Eyebrows were raised. 'Vous voulez aller à Paris? A pied? Il a des problèmes, celui-la.'****

Although he was supposed to remain incognito, Ron felt obliged to point out that he possessed a means of transport. You never knew, these friendly guys might feel obliged to give him a lift otherwise. 'Moi, alley Paris' – where was the entry for 'fly' when you really needed it? Ah, there! – 'Volley!' He pointed at the dark night sky – Muggles did have airplanes after all, so this wouldn't make them suspicious.

'Voyons, assez,' the most senior-looking policeman said. 'On peut pas le laisser ici. Allez, jeune homme,' he adressed Ron, 'dans la voiture, et vite. Et demain vous nous raconterez ce que vous avez avalé et où vous l'avez acheté. Allons, allons, nous on n'a pas le temps pour vos bêtises!'*****

So he was going to get his lift after all. Ron shrugged and handed his broom to one of the policemen who strapped it to the roof rack.

When he saw his reflection in the police car's window, he began to understand why the policemen were treating him as a harmless idiot rather than a dangerous dweller of the underworld. The combined effect of salty, humid air and a headwind had turned him into something like a streamlined leprechaun.

*Ah, the English… They really do have a knack for foreign languages.'

**'I think he's Swiss'

*** 'He thinks he's a girl?'

****'You mean to go to Paris? On foot? That guy's really got a problem!'

*****'Right, that's enough. We can't leave him here. Off you go, young man, into the car, and make that quick. Tomorrow you're going to tell us what you've taken and where you bought it. Get cracking, we don't have time for your shenanigans!'

--..--.--

Severus awoke to gentle snoring. He was feeling strangely relaxed and sanguine, a rare occurrence indeed. Severus wasn't a morning person.

Sleep kept clinging to his brain, and in this half-wakeful state memories came back of soft moans and even softer skin, and of a hand doing highly pleasant things to his cock. Severus snuggled closer to the woman in his arms and sighed. 'That was good,' he muttered.

'Really?' came the breathless reply. 'I mean it was good for me too, but since I'm a bit of a novice I wasn't quite sure…'

During his years of spying, Severus had trained himself to notice even the slightest inconsistencies, the most minuscule signs of things not being as they should. As inconsistencies went, this was a rather big one – he was lying on grassy ground, and the female voice set off a mental alarm that roared STUDENT ALERT! STUDENT ALERT! He sat up so abruptly that his much-abused joints didn't even have time to creak. He shouldn't have looked down, though, because his fly was undone, and there were telltale stains on the fabric of his trousers. Had he really… Well, he obviously had and, what was worse, the girl didn't seem to mind at all.

Severus cleared his throat. 'How far exactly did we, erm, go?'

'The technical term' – Hermione felt embarrassment wash over her and closed her eyes – 'I suppose the technical term would be foreplay. Maybe advanced foreplay. But…' She reopened her eyes and looked at him. 'I enjoyed it. A lot.'

'That's… Well, I guess it's good news. I wish I knew what time it is.'

'Half past six,' she said promptly.

Severus frowned down at her. 'How would you know?'

Sitting up, Hermione pointed at the security camera in the far corner. 'There's a luminous display, very small, but I can just make it out.'

She had to have the eyesight of an eagle. Probably, although this was not the best of moments to remember it, her superior eyesight owed to the fact that she was twenty years younger than he. Twenty years, and he had… His fly, however, hadn't unbuttoned itself, and he was sure he hadn't had a hand in it. Bad pun, but that was the, erm, naked truth. He really ought to work on his metaphors. 'So we've got at least two hours until the museum opens,' he said as nonchalantly as possible.

The grin she gave him could only be called lascivious. 'Three and a half, to be exact. And what, I wonder, are we going to do with so much time on our hands?'

'Well,' Severus said stiffly, 'I thought we might have a bath, not together of course, erm, because that would be, erm…'

'Pleasant?'

'Yes, probably, but also highly unsuitable.'

Hermione shrugged. 'I don't think so – there's nobody here to see us, and it seems that we both enjoyed our, well, foreplay.'

'I meant morally unsuitable.'

This argument was met with a wide-eyed stare. 'Are you married?'

'No, of course I'm not married. I was alluding to the age difference, and to the fact that you used to be my student.'

'That doesn't sound very convincing.'

'Probably,' Severus muttered, 'because it wasn't meant to be.'

That was the end of that discussion, and a minute later Severus found himself naked in the surprisingly tepid water, watching Hermione undress.

Hermione, who was trying to do a seductive striptease, which wasn't easy since she was wearing a much-too-large jacket and a minimalist loincloth, frowned at him when he started laughing. 'What's so funny?'

'Look at you,' Severus gasped, 'just look at you! Manet, that moron, he didn't paint you any nipples!'

--..--..--

Unlike Ron, Lucius enjoyed croissants just as much as he enjoyed bacon and eggs. He enjoyed any kind of breakfast, so long as it came with good, strong coffee.

He'd woken up rather early and ordered breakfast, and was now enjoying his still-warm croissant slathered in butter from Normandy and a cup of hot, black coffee. He'd also ordered some newspapers and was satisfied to see that they reported no gruesome, inexplicable deaths. So Severus and the girl were almost certainly safe, and he merely had to locate them.

The problem, however, was that McNair and Beasley were probably thinking along the same lines. If they had followed the girl to the museum, which was likely given Baxter's presence there, and if they'd lost her trace there, they wouldn't have stood a chance to do much about it, not with so many people around, unless they wanted to attract attention, which was surely the last thing they wanted. If they had therefore failed to find her elsewhere, they were highly likely to turn up at the museum as soon as it opened. If you knew how to do it, you could detect the traces of spells up to forty-eight hours after they'd been performed, but the sooner you started the better your chances were actually to find out which spell had been used. After twenty-four hours, there usually were enough residues to confirm that magic had been used, but they were insufficient to allow a more exact determination. Therefore he had to act quickly and without being seen, and so did the other two.

Lucius had a suspicion, though, as to the kind of spell Severus might have employed, provided he'd done so at the museum. If he'd had to hide himself and the girl right then and there, chances were he'd transported them into one of the paintings. And since they had developed the spell themselves, the probability of McNair and Beasley recognizing it was practically zero.

When he'd finished his morning ablutions – he'd grown rather fond of his short hair by now, and it was so much easier to dry – Lucius had decided that taking the bull by the horns was probably best. A simple Disillusionment Charm would be enough for the few seconds he was going to spend in room 19, and if Severus and the girl weren't in one of those paintings, well, he'd have to think of a disguise that would enable him to perform a more thorough search. If, on the other hand, they were there, he'd simply join them.

He only hoped there'd be naked ladies.

--..--..--

Seamus Finnegan, who was a halfblood and knew the ways of the Muggle world, had often told horrendous stories about the essential uselessness and wickedness of policemen. British policemen, to be sure, but according to Seamus, they were the same everywhere. They beat the crap out of innocent people who just happened to stand near a group of raving hooligans, they constantly pestered drivers who'd exceeded the speed limit by a mere five miles an hour, and in the meantime houses were burgled, children abducted and shopping centres blown up, and the police didn't do a thing about it.

Either Seamus was wrong, or the French police were indeed very different from their English colleagues, Ron mused. The specimens he'd encountered the other night had taken him to the police station and locked him in a cell, but they'd given him a bottle of water when he'd asked for it and an extra blanket when he complained that he was cold. They'd made a few jokes at his expense, but that was hardly a violation of his rights.

In the morning they'd made him pee into a bucket and said something about a test; then a tired-looking guy sporting three days' worth of beard, who was obviously a doctor, had drawn some blood, and in the end they'd just let him go. They'd even looked a bit guilty, not to mention surprised. And they'd given back his broom, so everything was all right.

The clock on the church tower told him that it was half past seven. Ron decided that he'd walk towards the outskirts of the town – it really didn't seem that big, and he still couldn't understand how he'd mistaken it for Paris – eat his sandwiches and look for signposts showing the way to Paris. Once near the capital, he'd Apparate to the hotel. Maybe Hermione wasn't in any danger after all and had returned to the hotel. Poor Hermione, she was probably desperate by now, what with him gone without a trace…

There'd be tears and reconciliation sex, which, according to certain magazines, was the best kind of sex, and then he might even indulge her and accompany her to one of those dratted museums. Considering that there would've been sex before, the naked ladies weren't a priority anymore.

--..--..--

'Severus,' Hermione whispered. She was becoming quite good at talking out of the corner of her mouth.

'Yes?'

'I'd like to ask you a question.'

The sex had been awkward – they'd been in the river, he'd come too early and Hermione had nearly drowned – but not bad. Given her enthusiasm, he had high hopes for any repetitions that might lie ahead of them. So he was in a rather mellow mood despite the lack of coffee and food. 'I suppose you can.'

'That's good. Because I'm a bit at a loss here. You're not in your own body, but you're definitely in there. But since we entered this painting, I haven't heard one harsh word, and that's very unlike you.'

For a few minutes, only the river's soft gurgling broke the silence.

Hermione cleared her throat. 'Are you, uh, going to say something?'

'I'm still waiting for the question you meant to ask.'

'Well, that was it, more or less.'

'You stated a fact.'

'I did, but I expected you to comment on it.'

'Ah. So no questions forthcoming at any point in time?'

'I think,' Hermione said while trying not to shake with suppressed laughter, 'that you just implicitly answered my unspoken question. The sarcasm's still there, but it seems to have lost its nasty edge. Correct?' Severus merely grunted. 'All right, and now I'm going to ask you a real question: your body, I mean your real body, how's it different from this one?'

Maintaining the bland expression of the young man in the picture was rather difficult, Severus felt, especially when faced with questions of an intimate nature. Fortunately there still weren't any visitors yet. 'Why do you want to know?'

Hermione moved her right thumb a fraction upwards. Nobody was going to notice, she was sure, and now that her mouth was partly covered, speaking was so much easier. 'Well, I thought if we're going to continue, uh, this, it would be nice to know.'

Wishing that he'd occupied the body of the man on the other side, because the guy was visible to the spectator only in half-profile (and because he'd be able to sneak a peek at Hermione's deliciously naked nether regions), Severus replied, 'You mean, continue this once we're out?'

'Of course. Or do you have any objections?'

'Not as such, no.'

'Well, then tell me.'

Severus sighed. 'All right. For one, I don't have a beard, obviously. I'm not as hairy as this guy-'

'Oh, good. And I imagine you're a bit less flabby round the waist, right?'

'Correct. There isn't much fat on me, and the last of it was eaten off by the metabolism-enhancing potions they gave me at St. Mungo's. I suppose you could call me bony.'

'Boney? Like Napoleon?' the man opposite asked conversationally. 'Hello, Severus. Miss Granger, pleased to meet you. Good Lord, you aren't wearing any knickers, this must be my lucky day.'

--..--..--

At least the hotel staff spoke English, which was a relief. They hadn't seen Hermione, though, and she wasn't in their room either. The confidence Ron had felt during his broom-ride to Paris was quickly evaporating, and when he saw that Hermione's clothes and toiletries hadn't been touched since they'd left the morning before, he began to feel genuinely afraid.

After a brief shower, he sat down on the bed and tried to remember what exactly Malfoy had told his mother the day before. They were on a mission, he'd said – and who on earth were the others? – and watching over Hermione had been part of it. Dragging Ron back to The Burrow had been a mere secondary issue. And hadn't he mentioned that Shacklebolt had sent them, whoever 'they' were?

His mother hadn't questioned the Minister's involvement, which seemed a bit strange in hindsight. Mentioning Shacklebolt of all people would've been sheer madness, unless of course… Ron buried his face in his hands. Unless Malfoy had told the truth. And if Malfoy had told the truth, Ron was in trouble up to his eyeballs. Ron shuddered. If Malfoy and his mysterious companions had indeed been sent to Paris by Kingsley Shacklebolt, then Hermione had probably been in real danger. And if the enemy had seen Ron together with Hermione, then Ron was probably in real danger, too. Maybe the rumours were true, and there _were_ lots of Death Eaters roaming France…

Ron glanced at his watch. It was now a few minutes past nine. In England it was a few minutes past eight. His mother never came to wake him up before ten, so if he managed to Apparate from here straight into his bed and didn't splinch himself, he might just pretend to have been there all night, and nobody would be the wiser. Especially not his mum. And especially not Kingsley Shacklebolt. And Malfoy. And most especially those rogue Death Eaters…

Already scanning the room for his belongings, he realized two important things: Firstly, that he'd better leave everything behind, because otherwise his mother might get suspicious, and secondly that there was the sound of heavy but hurried footsteps coming from the corridor.

Ron grabbed his wand and concentrated on his cosy attic bedroom. He caught a last glimpse of the door opening to admit McNair and a second man, and he heard a string of swearwords, but before they could grab him he was already home.

In a manner of speaking.

--..--..--

Room 19 was still devoid of visitors, which was lucky, because Severus completely lost control. 'What the fuck are you doing here, Lucius?' he yelled. 'You're supposed to get us out of here, not join us! Do you realize that we're stuck here?'

Hermione, rather oblivious to his frantic gesturing, because she was trying to arrange herself in a way that wouldn't allow Lucius Malfoy to unashamedly stare at her pudenda, was only half-listening. Besides she was quite sure – and rightly so – that Lucius wouldn't have entered the picture unless he knew how to get out again.

'Don't be such a drama queen,' Lucius drawled. 'Of course we aren't stuck here. I've improved the spell, as I'm sure you'll be glad to hear, so that I can enter and exit paintings all on my own. And I have my wand.'

Visibly deflating, Severus folded his limbs back into the pose they were supposed to assume. 'I, erm, see. Well, that's… that's all right then. Have you seen Beasley and McNair?'

'Oh yes,' Lucius said. 'They arrived half an hour ago, looking supremely pissed-off. Right now they're just outside this room in the corridor, poised like predators and ready to pounce. They bribed the guard to let them in a bit early, and I'd already disillusioned myself, so I simply followed. '

'You're making that sound remarkably funny,' Hermione observed.

'That's because it is rather funny. They'll be waiting for hours and hours-'

'While we'll be sitting here until our buttocks fall off,' Severus interrupted him snidely. 'It's not comfortable, I assure you.'

'Well, it will be. Are there any visitors in sight?' Both Severus and Hermione responded in the negative. 'Excellent.' Lucius got up and stretched. 'So I'll just' – he picked up a stray leaf and transfigured it into an exact, two-dimensional replica of the young woman – 'conjure some placeholders and off we go.' Another leaf obediently morphed into a clone of the man whose body Severus was inhabiting.

Vastly impressed by Lucius's skills, Hermione did her best not to let it show. 'We ate the bread roll,' she merely said, 'and most of the fruit.'

'Piece of cake,' Lucius said. Ten seconds later, the painting looked exactly as it ought to, only a bit crowded with seven people in it.

'I suggest we take the boat,' Severus said, pointing at the background.

Lucius shook his head in disapproval. 'Nonsense. We move from painting to painting, but on foot, until we arrive in room 13, which is on the same floor, just on the opposite side of the building. There is a portrait of a young woman, who happened to be my great-aunt. From there, we simply enter her portrait in the dining room of Malfoy Manor, et voilà, we step out and into safety.' He offered his arm to Hermione.

Unable to resist the urge to ask questions, she didn't take his arm but merely stared up at him. 'Move from painting to painting? So why' – she turned to Severus – 'didn't we just leave that way? There's lots of still lives in here, we could've eaten our fill! And the river didn't taste too nice either, we could've had clean water!'

'You need a wand to do that, unless you're a magical painting,' Severus said. He sounded as if his patience wasn't going to last much longer.

So it was probably better to pepper Malfoy with questions. He was still fresh and also a bit of a show-off. 'Isn't that a bit risky? There'll be lots of people looking at the pictures, and if they see us there-'

'Nonsense,' Lucius interrupted her. 'People see what they expect to see. Besides, much as it pains me to say so, most tourists visit museums only to look at certain key oeuvres, such as this and a few others. Only very few can be bothered to look closely at paintings they consider less important.'

Feeling a bit guilty, because she'd visited the Louvre mainly to see the Mona Lisa, Hermione nodded. 'That's probably right. What about my clothes though? And my wand?'

'When you step out of Aunt Marguerite's portrait, you'll be exactly as you were when you entered this painting.'

'And what happens then?'

The two men exchanged a glance of grim complicity. 'Then,' Severus said, 'we'll go back to Paris and catch those two bastards.'

'Really?' Hermione beamed. 'I'm coming with you.'

'We'll see,' was Lucius's diplomatic reply. 'Right now I daresay we ought to leave the premises as quickly as possible.'


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE - Les occasions de pécher / The Opportunities to Sin

It seemed to Hermione that her life was definitely taking a turn for the better. Certainly for the more exciting, because after a hike through a dozen paintings (and more cat-calls and wolf-whistles than she'd ever heard) they'd actually arrived in the portrait Malfoy had mentioned, whereupon he'd performed a complicated spell that transported them to his great-aunt's portrait at Malfoy Manor, just as he'd predicted, from where they'd stepped into a dining room of impressive proportions. Her awe at having accomplished this feat had faded into nothingness, though, when she'd caught her first glimpse of Severus and Malfoy in the latter's natural habitat.

They were both wearing Muggle clothes, both had had their hair cut and, most of all, both looked extremely appetizing. And she'd lost her virginity to one of them only a few hours ago! If this wasn't the stuff of dreams… In her case, it was, and when a small voice in her mind whispered, 'One down, one to go' she couldn't help feeling quite the femme fatale.

The Lady of the Manor was nowhere to be seen, which suited Hermione just fine. Given Malfoy's reputation, the thought that she wanted him to cheat on his wife didn't trouble her much, but ogling the two wizards under the coolly disapproving eyes of Narcissa Malfoy wouldn't have been quite the same as ogling them undisturbed.

Lucius Malfoy in jeans and a shirt – the demons of hell had probably started knitting socks for the freezing damned. If this could happen, anything could.

Lucius had ordered breakfast for all of them, and while the table was being set, a House Elf had shown Hermione to an upstairs room with an en suite bathroom that defied description. The combined effect of her memories of earlier that morning and of luxurious bath products did nothing to calm Hermione's raging hormones. Not that she was complaining, she merely noticed the fact with scientific exactitude and acted accordingly.

Simple white cotton underwear – she hadn't bothered to pack anything else for a holiday with Ron – was transformed into something black and moderately sexy; the sweatshirt she'd worn became a sleeveless, clingy black top with a rather daring neckline, and the jeans obeyed another flick of her wand and changed into a pair of black Capri trousers. Black flats and a denim jacket – surely Lucius wouldn't mind the loss of a washcloth – completed her outfit. When her hair had woven itself into a modest French braid, Hermione gave a satisfied sigh and descended the stairs.

The men had obviously freshened up as well, and for a few seconds Hermione was content just to sit there and inhale their scents. She had to persuade them to let her come to Paris with them, though, and since she was sure the two wizards were going to object, she firmly told herself to stop drooling and get on with the convincing. 'So how are we going to capture McNair and Beasley?' was her opening gambit.

Two pairs of eyes focused on her. It was a slightly disturbing experience, but Hermione bravely maintained her smile.

'You can't come with us,' Severus said flatly.

'Of course I _can_, you just don't want me to.'

'A very astute observation.' Lucius poured himself more coffee and smiled at her. 'And absolutely correct. We don't want you to accompany us.'

Aware that she'd never be able to outmanoeuvre two Slytherins – she intended to learn how to do it, but now wasn't a time for learning, it was a time for winning an argument – Hermione had decided beforehand that sledgehammer tactics would be a lot more successful. Time to deliver the first blow, then. 'I had sex with him,' she said and fondly watched as Severus inhaled his orange juice.

'Did you indeed?'

A few weeks ago, Hermione would've run as fast as she could, had Lucius regarded her with _that_ kind of interest. Now, she merely found it rather fascinating. Vanquishing Dark Overlords and seeing their right-hand man beaten and bruised tended to change one's view of the latter. 'Uh-huh. Earlier this morning, in the river. Oh, and we had some foreplay during the night.'

'Foreplay too? Severus, you're quite the ladies' man, aren't you?'

Between wheezes, Severus coughed something that sounded like 'She started it!'

'Delighted to hear it,' Lucius remarked. 'But I fail to see how this erotic adventure might lead to you accompanying us back to Paris.'

'Well, that's quite obvious. I want to have sex again, and I'm not going to wait until you return.'

'Ah.' Lucius scrutinized her until she blushed. 'You are of course aware, aren't you, that Severus and I are sharing a room? Not to mention a bed.'

Suddenly realizing the exact meaning of "I've bitten off more than I can chew" Hermione forced her slackening facial muscles into a bright smile. 'Yes, I think Severus mentioned it. It's not a problem, is it?' Maybe her neckline was a bit too daring – Lucius's eyes seemed to have got lost spelunking in her cleavage. Well, at least she had nipples now. Not that they would have needed to make themselves quite so visible.

'I wouldn't call it a problem. Threesome would be a more appropriate term, wouldn't it?'

'Three… Yes. Erm, yes, that's probably what you call it.' Breathing had become a little difficult, and then she made the mistake of looking straight into Lucius's eyes. It was the visual equivalent of being caught between steel clamps. She meant to say something, anything really, not necessarily witty. Just… something. Unfortunately her mind didn't seem to contain any words but… 'Mango chutney!'

'I beg your pardon?' Lucius's lips were twitching. 'I must admit, I have found many creative ways to use food in a non-strictly-nourishing context, but mango chutney is news even to me. I do hope you don't prefer it spicy.'

'N-no. I mean I never had time to look at the labels.' She buried her face in her hands. 'Just forget what I said, please!'

Severus, who had finally overcome his coughing fit, took a sip of coffee. 'I believe,' he said, 'that you ought to answer the unspoken question. I seem to recall that you're quite fond of them.'

'Y-yes. Fine.' Her eyes searched for and met Severus's. 'I'd, uh, like come to Paris with you anyway and to, erm, to try. If that's… if that's okay with you,' she croaked.

'Certainly,' he said smoothly.

Something seemed to be stuck in her throat. Hermione swallowed, but the thing didn't budge. 'Right. If sex with one man is good, sex with two men has to be twice as good. That's logical, isn't it?'

'Not necessarily,' Severus retorted. 'Because, you see, the pleasure might increase exponentially.'

A lesser witch would probably have chickened out, but Hermione wasn't a lesser witch. 'Are we going to hunt Death Eaters before or after having sex?' she asked.

The fond smiles the two men gave her almost made her believe in her own bravado.

--..--..--

A hundred feet seemed a lot more harmless from a horizontal than a vertical perspective. If, for instance, you were standing at a distance of a hundred feet from, say, a shop, you were free to decide whether you wanted to move towards it or walk away from it. More importantly, you could choose the speed at which to approach it.

If, on the other hand, you were, well, suspended a hundred feet above ground, there was only one way you could move, and that was downwards, and if you couldn't get to your wand, determining your cruising speed was up to gravity and not to you.

It had most definitely been a mistake, Ron thought, to concentrate less on his bed than on the Chudley Cannons poster pinned to the wall above it. At least he'd had the presence of mind to grab the goal hoop, but the sudden movement had made his wand slip from his sleeve. If only he hadn't eaten all his sandwiches. Ron felt the deep conviction that not having eaten them would've made all the difference – he could've pulled himself up and scrambled into a sitting position. He would still be a hundred feet above ground, but in less imminent danger of his hands losing their grip.

Ron closed his eyes and swallowed. Talk of exchanging the frying pan for the fire. Well, a future holding the distinct possibility of falling and breaking all his bones, if not his neck, was slightly more appealing than the alternative future of being held prisoner by Death Eaters and tortured to death. He forced himself not to look down. He didn't have a problem with heights when on his broomstick, but right now he was feeling downright sick. Maybe he ought to look up…

Muscles screaming in protest, he forced his head back until the lower part of the hoop, to which he was clinging, became visible. It was only an arm's length away, which wasn't that much, even though his arms felt as if they were five feet long. He had to try. Was it better, though, to swing up his legs, or should he simply pull himself up?

Suddenly the decision wasn't his to make any more, because his right hand slipped off the metal. He swung to the left and, oh miracle of miracles, his feet encountered the long, vertical pole holding the hoop. He clamped his shins around it, gave an almighty lurch to the left, and then he was already sliding down the pole, braking with hands and knees and the rubber soles of his trainers. It wasn't a pleasant journey downwards, but compared to a fall it was practically a luxury trip.

His feet once again safely on the ground, Ron glanced at his watch. Unbelievable though it seemed, no more than five minutes had passed since he'd Apparated out of the hotel room in Paris. Probably he wasn't looking as if he'd spent the last night asleep in his bed, but, once home at The Burrow, he'd try to clean himself up as well as he could. Then, he was going to think of something to tell mum, and if she didn't believe it, which was highly likely, at least she was never going to guess the truth.

He picked up his wand and readied himself for another bit of Apparition. Never, he swore to himself, never ever again was he to disobey mum and dad. They were right: he wasn't cut out to be an Auror. Accounting seemed like a very attractive career option.

He had to face it. He really wasn't the adventurous type.

--..--..--

Hermione, blissfully ignorant of her now-definitely-former boyfriend's escapades, was standing between Severus and Lucius in the entrance hall of Malfoy Manor, hand poised over the Portkey that was going to activate within a few seconds.

They were returning to Paris. They were going to have adventures and capture Death Eaters. And they were going to have sex. All in all, it was a very exciting perspective.

Funny, she thought. Before Hogwarts, there hadn't been any adventures, and during her time at Hogwarts, adventures had always tended to land her in the hospital wing, while Harry got all the praise and accolades. The year they'd spent on the run had been exactly the same, only with a greater probability of replacing "hospital wing" with "grave"/"all over the place"/"gruesome end of, no sorry, not your but somebody else's choice".

And now, when she'd said and done more outrageous things in a mere five hours than she'd dreamed of doing in five years, and when, more to the point, she'd finally exchanged the Good Guys for a couple of jaded, cynical ex-Death Eaters, the word adventure suddenly sounded less like Good Old Hermione Will Fix It For Us than Come Here Sweet And Let's Have A Threesome Before We Go Get The Bastards. The word adventure had gained a certain panache, a bit of chutzpah, it had come of age. Feverishly casting protection charms on a tent in the Forest of Dean and cooking mushrooms in a rusty tin over a conjured fire suddenly seemed a bit… lame. Certainly less glamorous than what was lying ahead of her. And glamour, well, some might say it was superficial, but that was probably sour grapes.

'Touch the Portkey,' Lucius said.

She did, and felt Lucius and Severus's fingers next to hers. A quick glance at their profiles, and then came the well-known pull, the sensation of being sucked through the narrow space between dimensions.

The room they ended up in was quite spacious, certainly bigger than the one she'd shared with Ron (but then her holiday hadn't been paid for by public funds). The predominant colours were black, grey and ivory, which made for an atmosphere of cool, relaxed elegance.

Her first thought upon closer inspection of their surroundings was that there wasn't a bed. Probably this was a sign of the thorough corruption her character had undergone during the last hours. Her moral decline was further proved by the satisfaction she felt when she spotted the bed through the door to the adjacent room. It seemed very large, and the realization that, by achieving her goal and accompanying the two men to Paris, she'd more or less consented to share this soft oasis of white linen with both of them suddenly made her feel a bit dizzy.

Of course she was always free to say no, and she was sure that not even Lucius would think of forcing her to do anything she wasn't comfortable with, but… The nature of this "but" wasn't quite clear to her. It wasn't that she felt obliged to have sex with one or both of them. She merely sensed vaguely that this second trip to Paris was some kind of chance – maybe to grow up, maybe to discover some hidden part of herself or perhaps merely to have bloody good sex – that she ought to grasp, even if she was completely out of her depth.

A hand touched her shoulder; the contact ended her reverie. She glanced up and into Lucius's eyes. His look was much more reassuring now, his expression less predatory. 'I beg your pardon for having interrupted your contemplation of the mysteries of the universe,' he said, 'but I think we ought to make some plans.'

"Plans" was a reassuring word, one she still associated with the safety of exams. 'I think I ought to go back to my hotel and check out,' she said.

Severus, who'd been rummaging in the bedroom, emerged just in time to hear her words. 'You certainly won't be going anywhere near your hotel,' he said, shaking his head, 'and neither will Lucius or I. I'd be very surprised if Beasley and McNair hadn't yet paid a visit, and even if they haven't, they're likely to do so very soon. It would be madness for any of us to walk right into their arms.'

'Yes, but if we know it's meant to be a trap,' Hermione objected, 'couldn't we somehow turn the tables? Use it to our advantage?'

Lucius sighed. 'Look, both of you. It's almost noon, so why don't we order a nice bottle of wine and think this through logically? Especially bearing in mind that lunchtime isn't far away, and knowing where we're going to have lunch is nothing if not important.'

'Wine? Now?' Hermione's morals may be quietly rotting away, but she hadn't had alcohol very often in her life and certainly never before dinner.

'My dear' – Lucius put an arm around her shoulders and guided her towards the sofa – 'there is so much we'll be able to teach you. So let us start with the beneficial effects of a glass of white wine in the late morning.'

'What if I get tipsy?'

Severus had moved over to stand behind her and bent down until his lips grazed her ear. 'Why, then we're of course going to take advantage of your state of slight drunkenness.'

'Isn't…' Once again, the bottom seemed to be falling out of her stomach. 'Isn't that against etiquette or something?'

'Only in England,' Lucius replied, looking up from the wine list. 'But then most things physical, except for cricket, are. In France it is perfectly all right.' He gave her a smile that held promises of all the things he meant to teach her, and dialled room service.

So maybe this was a dream. Hermione rubbed her eyes. 'He's… he's using the phone!' she said to Severus, pointing at their third.

'Yes, well, owling room service might cause slight disturbances in the kitchen area, you know.'

'Yes, but…' This was all becoming a bit too much. Maybe having one or two glasses of wine was going to put things into perspective, although she doubted it.

'Well, then,' Lucius said, returning to join them on the sofa, 'I think it's plotting time.'

--..--..--

During the one memorable night Ron had spent in a Muggle hotel in Romania (the family had gone to visit Charlie, but all humans had had to leave the reserve when a fight had broken out between two male dragons), he'd discovered a book called The New Testament somebody had evidently forgotten on the nightstand. He'd started to read it and not found it to be of much interest, but in the spirit of thoroughness he'd then leafed through the last pages, curious to see how it ended.

It hadn't ended overly well. The image of the Four Riders, Death, Famine, Pestilence and War, had made a particularly strong impression on him. And now he knew exactly how the people in the book had felt. Since such a thing as Famine was a bit difficult to incorporate into such plentiful surroundings as The Burrow, only three riders had come to announce the Final Judgment.

Things had seemed to go so smoothly, though. He'd Apparated to Ottery St. Catchpole – this time to the doorstep, and he wasn't sure whether he'd ever again dare Apparate to his bedroom – crept into the house through the back door, tiptoed up the stairs and into the bathroom. A washcloth and soap had taken care of the dirt on his face and hands; he'd changed into his pyjamas and hidden his clothes under the bed, planning to repair them later that day.

After the night he'd spent mostly on a broomstick and partly at the police station, he was surprised that sleep didn't come to him more easily. He'd merely fallen into a light doze from which he woke up frequently. The ferocious bites of hunger, triggered by the aroma of breakfast wafting into his room, had made him leave his bed and go downstairs shortly after half past nine.

Kingsley Shacklebolt sitting at their kitchen table, his large form seeming to occupy half the room, should have warned him. But Kingsley had been his father's friend since their Hogwarts years, and visits to The Burrow weren't anything unusual. Besides, things were always much clearer in hindsight, such as the warm smile Molly gave him when he entered the kitchen. When he'd done something really stupid or dangerous, and accompanying Hermione to Paris against mum's explicit wish certainly qualified, his mother giving him the cold shoulder for a few days after was an absolute certainty. He ought to have known that something was afoot. Not that such knowledge would've helped much.

Kingsley got up and shook Ron's hand. 'It's good to see you, Ron. How have you been? I hope the Aurors haven't given you too much trouble.'

'I suppose they were only doing what they had to do,' Ron replied, trying to sound very much like a man of the world. 'And they needed to know all that background stuff.' His mother put a plate of sausage, eggs and mushrooms in front of him, and he attacked it with gusto, wisely choosing not to comment on the superiority of an English breakfast compared to the rubbish they made you eat in France. Never tickle a sleeping dragon and all that.

'I'm glad you see it that way,' Kingsley said. 'Your help and that of your two friends was invaluable. We were of course worried that recounting such traumatizing events might reopen old wounds…'

Ron shrugged. 'It wasn't nice,' he said through a mouthful of sausage and mushrooms, 'but everybody has to do their bit. Responsibility, you know.' He helped himself to the bottle of HP Sauce.

Somehow his last words seemed to have struck the wrong chord, though, because suddenly Death, War and Pestilence were all sitting at the table and giving him ominous looks. Their chairs didn't move, but somehow they seemed to be closing in on him. Ron made a brave attempt at giving them all a carefree smile. Their thunderous expressions made him doubt he'd succeeded, though.

'Is this your signature?' said the First Rider, his ebony forehead wrinkling in a frown of disapproval.

Ron swallowed. This was the form he'd had to sign upon leaving the police station. How on earth… Play it cool, he told himself. There still might be a chance to get out of this with his dignity intact. He cocked his head and pretended to examine the writing while dabbing HP Sauce from his chin with a napkin. 'Yeah, that does look very like my signature,' he finally said, glancing at each of the Three Riders in turn. 'But it isn't. What's this, by the way?' He pointed at the form. 'Looks like French to me.'

'It is French,' the Second Rider said. His blue eyes, usually looking at the world with an expression of mild surprise, had assumed a steely glint. 'To be exact, it's a form somebody obviously called Ronald Weasley had to sign when he was released from a police station in Rouen.'

Ah, so that's where he'd landed. Rouen. Interesting. 'Erm, yes? Well, I've never been to, uh, Rouen. To Paris, yes, but you know that.'

The Third Rider shoved her plate towards the middle of the table and crossed her arms. 'Oh, yes, we know that.'

'Well, that's all right then,' Ron said brightly. 'Where are all the others, by the way? Sleeping in?'

'The whereabouts of all the others,' the Third Rider growled, 'don't seem very interesting right now. It's your whereabouts' – she stabbed him with a surprisingly sharp forefinger – 'I'm interested in.'

Time for a sunny, reassuring smile. 'Well, I'm here, Pestil- er, mum.'

The devious smile the Third Rider gave him was very disquieting. 'And your broom? Where's your broom, Ron?'

Shit, oh shit, oh shit. His broom was in a hotel room in Paris – for all he knew, the two Death Eaters had destroyed it in their fury. 'Out in the broom shed, why do you ask?'

The Second Rider smiled and nodded. 'That's good. Because Kingsley suggested a game of Quidditch. You're going to play, aren't you?'

'I, er, well, I'm not sure. It's a bit cold outside, and I wouldn't want to… Erm, I've been feeling a bit… Maybe next time,' Ron concluded lamely, trying to fight an increasing sense of desperation.

'The fresh air will be good for you,' the First Rider said reassuringly. 'Come on Ron, don't be a spoilsport. It's not every day you get to play Quidditch with the Minister for Magic.' He winked.

'All… All right.' He'd just borrow Ginny's broom, and no-one was going to be the wiser. 'Let's go.'

The Three Riders nodded and got up. Ron surreptitiously wiped the sweat off his forehead. That had been a close shave, the third this morning. He wondered how much more he could take, but was secretly proud of himself – maybe he was going to be an Auror after all. You needed nerves of steel, and presence of mind didn't hurt either.

'You'd do well to enjoy this game,' the Second Rider suddenly said. 'Because it's going to be your last until your N.E.W.T.s.'

'What?' Ron whirled around to look at his father. 'You can't be serious!'

The Third Rider, balled fists resting on her ample hips, nodded grimly. 'Oh yes, we are. No Quidditch, and you'll be doing household chores for the rest of your holidays, and no Quidditch when you're back at school. You have no idea how lucky you've been. You might be dead now, or worse!' Her eyes filled with tears.

'But… But I told you it wasn't me who signed that paper!'

'So you told us,' the First Rider said. 'But I bet you won't be able to lie your way out of the statement of one of the policemen, who happens to have a brother who's a wizard – your broomstick was a dead giveaway, I'm afraid. Then there's the urgent owl I received half an hour ago from the French Aurors, who found your broom among the debris of a hotel room in Paris. There aren't that many Cleansweeps around anymore, and all of them in England. And then there's the matter of the Floo call alerting Law Enforcement to a guy hanging from the goal hoop at the Manchester Quidditch Stadium.'

'That's not true,' Ron spluttered, 'There was nobody there, I mean…'

'I suppose you weren't really in a shape to take in your surroundings. Jolly Paisley, the Seeker, was doing a bit of early morning practice when he spotted you.'

'Paisley? Paisley was there? Shit, and I didn't see him – I would've asked him for his autograph!'

The Three Riders closed their eyes and gave a collective sigh of exasperation. Their trumpets, useless in the face of such bone-headed ignorance, fell clattering to the floor. St. John had got it all wrong, obviously.


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX - Tout amuse, tout plaist / Everything's A Joke, Everything Pleases

The sofa wasn't really made to accommodate three people, but sitting nestled between the two men, with their arms around her shoulders and sipping a glass of cool white wine, was actually very nice. Lucius's fingers were toying with the loose strands of hair at the nape of her neck, and Severus's hand was gently stroking her upper arm. Hermione snuggled deeper into the upholstery and sighed. 'Didn't somebody mention plotting?'

Fingertips wandering to her right ear to caress the lobe, Lucius held up his wineglass to admire the play of the sunlight through the straw-coloured liquid. 'Don't be so annoyingly eager to work, my dear. Relax, and enjoy the wine. And, I might add, our company.'

'But,' she objected and drew a sharp breath when the tips of Severus's fingers strayed towards an already overexcited nipple, 'but we need to capture McNair and…' She fell silent and closed her eyes. Those light caresses were playing havoc with her ability to think.

'Beasley,' Severus finished her sentence. 'Yes, of course we have to capture them. But not necessarily today.'

'Not… But if we don't, they might find us!'

'Absolutely,' Severus agreed gravely. His hand was now tracing gentle circles on her throat.

'So why… I mean, you didn't want to go to my hotel, because they might be waiting for us. I don't see the logic in waiting for them here, then. I thought you wanted to avoid direct confrontation.'

'Avoid?' Lucius bent down to press a kiss on her other earlobe, his tongue darting out to tease. 'Nobody ever said anything about avoiding them. But there's a difference, my dear' – he softly bit her earlobe – 'between walking into a trap and setting a trap. We are on our home turf, so to speak, which gives us all the advantage we need.'

Hermione bent forward to snatch the bottle out of the cooler. 'I think I need more wine.' She looked at their smiling faces and leaned back into the cradle of their arms. 'So what you're suggesting is, basically, to stay here and wait till they come for us?'

'That,' Severus said, 'would be Plan A, yes.'

'But we might have to stay in this room for days!'

'That,' Lucius said, mimicking his friend's tone, 'would be one of the undeniable advantages of Plan A, yes. Seeing as we certainly won't be bored.' He breathed a kiss on her temple. 'Or do you think we will?'

She looked at them in turn. 'You're serious about this threesome thing, aren't you?'

Severus smiled down at her. 'There never was any doubt about us being serious. The question is: were you?'

'I… well, basically yes. In, erm, theory. It's the practical side that… You have already done this, haven't you? Because I wouldn't have the first clue what to do.'

'Being naked and on your back doesn't seem too difficult,' Lucius purred.

'Yes, but… I mean, there's got to be some sort of choreography involved, if you know what I mean. All those, uh, body parts, and I only have…' She fell silent and bit her lip, unable not to blush, although she would've wished she could have stopped the blood from rushing to her face.

'I assure you,' Severus said, 'we're well able to get around this problem.' His hand returned to her breast, a little more firmly now. 'Are you feeling tipsy already?'

'I, yes, I'm beginning to… Tipsy, and, well…'

'Wet?' Lucius murmured into her ear.

The blood that had previously suffused her cheeks decided it was needed elsewhere and followed the pull of gravity. 'Oh my god,' Hermione said weakly.

'Just call him Lucius. It wouldn't do to give him ideas.' Severus got up and held out his hand. 'Sex on a full stomach doesn't seem very attractive, does it?' He smirked at Lucius.

'No time like the present,' the blond wizard agreed. He stood up as well and pulled Hermione to her feet. 'Or does the lady have other ideas?'

--..--..--

'I think I pulled a muscle,' Hermione murmured, rubbing her right thigh.

Lucius looked up from the breast he was nuzzling. 'I don't think so. You're just not used to this kind of activity. Yet,' he added huskily.

'But I could try to kiss it better.' Severus, on her other side, propped himself up on his elbow. 'Even if it doesn't help with the soreness, it might take your mind off it.' He bent down for a long, lazy kiss.

'But we just…' Hermione tried to protest, when she could again use her mouth to speak. 'You can't be ready for another round.' Her head fell back into the pillow when Lucius started gently to suckle her nipple. She buried her hands in his short, blond hair to pull him even closer. 'Oh, that's good!'

'Yes, isn't it.' He gave her an insolent grin. 'Lesson number one: one of the undeniable advantages of having a threesome with two men is that recovery periods aren't necessary. One of them is always ready, unless of course…' His mouth returned to her breast.

'Unless what?'

'You simply can't stop asking questions, can you?' Severus said, already sliding downwards, so he could apply the healing powers of his mouth to her thigh.

'I don't quite see why you should complain, if I'm trying to learn more about sex,' Hermione snapped.

'Even if' – he nudged Lucius to make room for him and lowered his head – 'such knowledge might be of a disturbing nature? Like, for example, your two male partners not devoting their attention only to you?'

Her squeak was silenced by Lucius kissing her, quite thoroughly. 'You wouldn't…' she finally said weakly.

Since Severus's tongue was otherwise occupied at the moment, Lucius graciously took it upon himself to answer. 'We would, but I think we ought to leave that for later, shouldn't we? One step at a time, we wouldn't want to get ahead of ourselves. For now, let us see' – he took her hand and guided it to his cock – 'whether I am, how did you put it, ready for the next round. Careful now,' he admonished, when Hermione's hand involuntarily clenched around his length.

'I can't really control it,' she panted, trying not simply to faint under the onslaught of sensations. 'It's Severus, he – oh GOD!'

They had to have done this quite often, she thought vaguely, when Severus ceded his place to Lucius in unspoken agreement and moved up and behind her. You didn't reach that level of smooth, effortless teamwork without lots of practice. She felt Severus's chest against her shoulder, and his leg pushing hers apart to give Lucius easier access. Then Lucius was over her, and then inside her, and she cried out again.

Moving very slowly, Lucius grinned down at her. 'You're a remarkably polytheistic young lady. That rather takes the fun out of being called god, you know?'

--..--..--

They'd skipped lunch in favour of sex and a bit of a kip in between rounds – the perimeter of alarm spells around the hotel was sure to alert them in time to get dressed and ready, Severus had explained – and ordered dinner once they woke up shortly after half past seven. Severus, who had gallantly offered to brush the tangles out of Hermione's hair, was working his way through the knotted mess, while Lucius was busy transfiguring two towels into a negligee for Hermione to wear.

'That's the right colour, I think,' he said, cocking his head and squinting at her, letting the creation dangle from his outstretched hand. 'Well, maybe a bit darker.' The negligee slowly darkened from deep mauve to light claret. 'Yes, that seems about right.' A flick of his wand, and Hermione was clothed. Or rather, her skin wasn't naked anymore.

'It's completely see-though,' Hermione protested.

'Yes, but there are two transparent layers, so it's practically decent.'

'There's nothing decent about this flimsy thing!'

'Well, no.' He smiled at her, the nice smile that made the corner of his eyes crinkle. She would never have dreamed that he could smile that way. 'Any fundamental objections to stockings?'

'Oh, good,' Severus said from behind her. 'Excellent thinking, I like stockings.'

Lucius snatched another towel, and soon Hermione was wearing sheer black silk stockings under her negligee. They felt sinfully good on her skin, as did the whole ensemble. 'Hermione Granger, wanton sex goddess,' she said, leaning back against Severus and sliding the toes of her right foot up her left leg. 'Sounds good, doesn't it?' She had the satisfaction of hearing Lucius gasp. When he advanced on her, eyes hungry, she quickly ducked out of his reach. 'But I think we ought to have dinner now.' Smiling back at him over her shoulder, she slunk towards the bedroom door.

'You're a fast learner,' he growled.

Severus chuckled. 'I always had an inkling that this quality, annoying as it sometimes was in the classroom, might be put to good use outside it. Dinner, then.' He nuzzled Hermione's ear and gave her a gentle push towards the table.

The staff had outdone themselves – glass and silverware sparkled amongst stark white linen, and the silver domes covering various plates reflected the light of the chandelier. When Lucius lifted the cover off the first dish, Hermione's stomach rumbled loudly. 'Is that pâté de foie gras?'

'Well spotted, Miss Granger.' Severus pulled out a chair for her. 'I daresay we've more than earned a hearty meal. And I swear I'm going to kill McNair very slowly and inventively, if he dares show his face before we finish dinner.'

It wasn't McNair, though, who interrupted their meal. They'd just started on the main course, when a whoosh of green flames from the fireplace almost made them drop their cutlery.

'Really, Kingsley,' Lucius said, getting up from his chair to crouch in front of the hearth, 'you ought to time your appearances more carefully. We're eating, and this delicious duck won't taste as good reheated.'

'Never mind your dinner,' Kingsley said curtly. 'Where the hell have you been, Malfoy? Where's Severus? And where, for fuck's sake, is Hermione Granger? We've been searching for her everywhere, while the two of you were obviously spending ministry money on lavish feasts! I'm warning you-'

'I'm here, Minister.' Hermione rose and joined Lucius, careful to keep her arms crossed over her chest.

'Hermione!' Kingsley closed his eyes in relief. 'Where have you been?'

'With, erm…' She pulled herself together. Using the two wizards' first names probably wasn't a good idea. 'With Professor Snape and, uh, Mr Malfoy.'

'What? All the time?'

Hermione nodded and desperately tried for an expression of utter boredom. 'Yes, well, we've been, erm, watching TV and… and talking.' She heard Severus snort softly and half-turned to shoot him a reproving glare. 'They said I'd be safe with them, so I thought that was all right. I had no idea you were looking for me.'

'Well, we were,' Kingsley said grimly. 'After what happened at your hotel – Lucius, have you been contacted by the French Aurors?'

'I don't think so.'

'What do you mean, you don't think so? Did they or didn't they contact you?'

'Not as far as I'm aware, no. But you see, Minister, we were rather caught up in our activities here, watching TV I mean-'

'We had the volume turned up quite a bit,' Hermione supplied helpfully, 'so we might not have heard if somebody knocked. It was an action movie with lots of explosions,' she added, hoping that this detail would lend verisimilitude to the lie.

It obviously had. 'Well, I guess the lazy bastards simply forgot,' Kingsley grumbled. 'Anyway, they got McNair and Beasley. They seem a bit reluctant to extradite them, so I'll be going to Paris tomorrow to oversee the negotiations myself.'

'Oh, that's good news!' Hermione beamed at Kingsley. 'So I'm safe now?'

'For the time being, Hermione, for the time being. You're quite a public figure, so I'd still advise you to be careful.'

'I could stay with Mr Malfoy and Professor Snape,' she suggested. 'I'm sure they'd look after me.'

'Lucius and Severus have more important things to do,' Kingsley said. 'Really, Hermione, I'm sorry, but I think it would be best if you came home right away. You could stay at The Burrow, or go back to Hogwarts, whatever you'd-'

'Miss Granger would be very welcome to stay with us,' Lucius interrupted smoothly. 'As she correctly assumed, we'll look after her. Not that she needs much looking after – her contribution to the success of our mission was absolutely invaluable.'

'Which mission?' Kingsley looked puzzled. 'Are you saying you had a hand in Beasley and McNair being caught?'

'That's exactly what I'm saying. And let us not forget Baxter, she helped us with him as well.'

'That's not what you told me yesterday.'

'Of course not,' Lucius replied without missing a beat. 'For one, there wasn't enough time, and I also didn't want to worry you more than necessary. But once you receive our report, you'll see that Miss Granger here was indeed being very helpful.'

Kingsley shot him a glance full of doubt. 'If you say so… Does this mean, then, that you'd like Miss Granger to become part of the team?'

'You must be reading my mind, minister. That's exactly what I meant to say. The Invincible Threesome, er Trio. Sounds good, doesn't it?'

The minister's broad shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. 'If that's what you want… You're of age, Miss Granger, so you're of course free to choose. What about school, though? You haven't yet sat your N.E.W.T.s!'

Hermione, who'd been doing some very quick thinking indeed, made a show of pondering the question. 'Oh, that's a bit of a bother. I hadn't thought of that.' Severus snorted again. 'You know what, Minister, maybe you could arrange for me to take my N.E.W.T.s at the Embassy here in Paris? I really don't need to return to school anymore, but I'd like to formally finish my education. Do you think that might be possible?'

Kingsley rubbed his bald head. 'It's a bit unusual, but I suppose it could be done. I'll get back to the board of examiners and ask them. Since you're in Paris, too, we can meet tomorrow and talk it through.'

Hair flying, Hermione nodded, genuinely happy. 'Thanks a lot! I hope they agree.'

'So do I. We wouldn't want to deprive Messieurs Snape and Malfoy of your company, now would we?' He winked at her. She was still searching for an appropriate answer when he interrupted her train of thought. 'Nice stockings, Miss Granger. I'm sure the two gentlemen know how to appreciate them.' He gave a merry little wave and broke the connection.

Lucius and Hermione turned towards Severus, who was still sitting at the table and looking every bit as speechless as his two companions. 'Devious bastard,' he finally said.

'Definitely.' Lucius rose and helped Hermione up. 'But, surprisingly, not judgemental in the least. Considering he's a Gryffindor.'

'We're not all bad, you know,' Hermione said, elbowing him in the ribs. 'We do have our qualities.'

Severus got up and walked over to them. The two men were standing very close now, both looking at her intensely, rather like Crookshanks stared at her when she was opening a tin of food.

'Oh, yes, you certainly do,' Lucius purred.

'Lots of qualities,' Severus echoed.

'To be explored in minute, not to say painstaking detail,' Lucius said.

'Incessantly and without regard for your thigh muscles,' Severus said.

'Or your pleas for mercy,' Lucius added.

'Or soreness in delicate places.'

'Or oversensitive nipples.'

They really wouldn't have needed to demonstrate their intentions right there on the carpet, she wouldn't have protested anyway. But then they didn't need to know everything.

THE END


End file.
